Run to You
by happybeckett
Summary: Though the drive is long, he goes to her when she calls. Rise post-hospital AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Really?_

_A/N: Yes, I know...I should be updating The Reunion, but hey, here's a new one! Why? Because I have absolutely no willpower. Hopefully, I'll update other things soon. I had an idea for what will likely be the third chapter of this, so I started writing, and I couldn't exactly, well, stop. So, yes, I plan on continuing this. And don't worry; I still plan on updating The Reunion. (10/28 Update: I didn't like the quotation I began with, so it has been switched to a - hopefully more applicable - quotation.)_

* * *

_"Life did not stop, and one had to live."_

_- Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace_

* * *

He'd replayed her messages at least a few hundred times before he even crossed into New Hampshire.

New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire. In that list, he had a state to represent each hour of driving even though he hadn't stayed for an hour in each state. In New York, the city seemed to disrupt the surroundings; people were rude on the highways, and everyone needed to be somewhere else ten minutes ago. Connecticut was another matter, for the drivers there hadn't needed to be rude, yet many people had cut him off, and hardly anyone allowed merging cars onto the highway. Even though he'd only been driving for a short amount of time, he'd nonetheless grown already tired of the sound of car horns. Though Massachusetts was famous for having all of the _Massholes_ on the road, Castle found Rush Hour through there to be oddly calm; everyone understood where everyone else had to be, so car horns were silenced, and merging cars were let merge. Of course, Vermont was calm beyond calm in regard to their drivers, for everyone he encountered there was miles and miles away from the previous person he'd encountered. At that point of the drive, he was glad to be in a place where the population of cows was greater than the population of people. Now, crossing into New Hampshire, he was done with scenery; he simply needed to be at his endpoint and no where else.

Though his GPS had told him that the trip would near six hours with traffic, he'd managed to bring it closer to five as he'd sped on the highways, had kept the cruise control on as he'd gone through back roads upon back roads. Five hours, he was easily willing to drive, yet somehow, he didn't feel as though he himself was driving; instead, he was covered in a haze, a numbness that brought him from Point A to Point B without pause or question. Two hours beforehand, he'd stopped for a drive-through coffee - which, mind you, had been _horrible_ at five in the afternoon, being that the last time the place had brewed coffee had been around eight that morning - but other than that stop, he hadn't dared delay the trip. Despite all of his better judgement, he'd driven, and now, he was crossing into New Hampshire, where he could _live free or die_.

I wonder how I'm supposed to interpret that, he wondered as he continued on the 10-South exit. After the nearly two-hundred mile span of I-91 that stretched from Connecticut to Massachusetts to Vermont, this final stretch of twenty-five miles on I-89 was nothing, yet he detested the distance, for a longer, more boring drive meant that he would inevitably replay her message, and then, he would speed up, would edge toward eighty-five miles per hour without a second thought. He needed to be there already, knew that with ease, but for now, he was stuck on a final stretch of highway, where he was one of few cars. It was strange, going from New York to a more sparse section of New Hampshire; a traffic jam was being stuck behind one car going speed limit on the expressway, and the exits were at least ten miles apart, if not more. Additionally, people were polite here, had given him the right-of-way when he'd deserved it. Strange, he thought, how kindness can make or break a situation.

Of course, he replayed her message once again as loud as he could through his phone.

_Hey, Castle._

Her voice cracked right there; he knew that by heart.

_I know I said I would call, and it's been two weeks, and I haven't, but..._

She sighed out long and hard right then, but then, her breath hitched, as though it hurt to even breathe out.

_God, I really wish I could've spoken to you and not to your voicemail, but I can't stop now._

He wished he could've picked up her call.

_But it's three in the morning, so I probably should've expected this._

And then he could picture her smile in his head, the little one she'd given him at the hospital, a glint of Kate that remained no matter what her injuries were. Even though she sounded far-out and distant in the message, she still had this little bit of herself woven into it.

_It's quiet here. At first, it was nice, but now, it's intolerable. Makes me miss you, you know?_

She sounded so insecure with those words, as though she put them out too quickly and wished to take them back. However, she pressed on anyway.

_It's too quiet here._

And that statement sounded more sullen, a little more upset. At this point, he always turned his smile down, for now he recalled why she'd called.

_Every night around this time, I think it's too quiet, and I always want to call you, but I don't, and..._

She trailed off again. He wanted to know the end of her sentence desperately. Now, his foot was easing onto the brakes, for he was tailgating the car in front of him. Against the wheel, his knuckles were white.

_God, Castle, I need you, and that's probably the drugs talking, but I need you. And I-_

And then the message cut off, for her message had been on the longer side to begin with, and afterward, she'd called him back, had listed off the address and house phone number for her father's cabin, where she was staying. She'd even specified that she was on Little Lake Sunapee, not Lake Sunapee, because, apparently, there was a difference. Oddly, he'd found that cute, but the cuteness hadn't set in until he'd heard both messages many times over.

Next came the regret, the moment in which he suddenly wished he hadn't left the city on such a whim. For Alexis, he'd left a hundred-dollar bill and a note; he'd stuffed three nights worth of clothes into a duffel, which was now sitting in the trunk of his car. However, he'd put the most effort into bringing her printed copies of every chapter in_ Heat Rises_ that was ready for publication. For safe keeping, he kept the stack on the passenger's seat, a constant reminder of why he'd left the city with such ease.

She needed him. In fact, she'd intended to elaborate, but, damn it, the voicemail box had cut her off. Now, he edged his foot back on the gas, wondered just how bad crossing a double-yellow in order to pass the guy ahead of him would be. Pretty bad, he thought, sighing out and taking off the gas. According to the GPS, he had ten miles more. In need of something to pass the time, he turned on the radio, heard - of course - "Drops of Jupiter" once he managed to tune to a station to the one station that the state seemed to have. He hummed along as the night grew darker, as he paid more attention to the miles on the odometer than to the road. When the GPS finally brought him off of I-89, flushes of relief came over him, full-body feelings of utter thankfulness. Checking the clock, he saw that it was edging toward eight; he'd be there likely past dinner, but nonetheless, he'd be there.

The only thing this part of New Hampshire had in common with New York was that he had to look desperately for street signs in order to navigate tight roads with low speed limits. Pushing thirty in a twenty-five, he headed toward Little Lake Drive, the way she'd directed him to go. At the sight of a twisting and ancient tree, a piece she'd insisted he use to guide himself, he turned left into a dark driveway thick with foliage where his car, though it was small, barely fit. Bearing to the right, as she'd said to, he finally found a small, illuminated cabin where one car was already parked. Though he barely had enough space to, he parked alongside the other car, took the keys from his ignition and the Nikki Heat chapters from his passenger's seat. Getting out of the car, he looked to the cabin, which was, quite literally, a log cabin, a single floor built the way Lincoln Logs stood. It was quaint in a lovely sort of way, a stark contrast to her apartment in the city, and just beyond the small cabin, the little lake lay; a deck beyond the cabin led to a dock on the lake, where a small fishing boat was tied. He had to gather the courage to walk up to the door of the cabin, and as he went through the dark outdoors, he learned just how quiet this part of New Hampshire was; though spring peepers in the distance gave lake sounds to the area, there were no cars, no honking horns, no stay-up-all-night partiers, no New Yorkers. At first, he found the quiet charming, but now, he simply found the silence unnerving, for she had found it unnerving, so now, he knew how detrimental it could be.

With very little confidence and a good amount of self-doubt, he knocked on the cabin's door twice.

"Katie? Did you tell Jack to come by?" Rick overheard.

"No. Why?"

And there was her voice, a strained and tired voice but nonetheless her voice. He relaxed. She was alive, so everything else seemed irrelevant or meaningless.

"Someone's at the door," Jim called back to her within the cabin.

"Who?"

He melted once more at the sound of her voice, and now, he knew for sure that he was hopeless.

"I don't know who."

"Did you call the pharmacy?"

"They don't deliver this late in the evening, Katie."

"Oh."

And then he heard it, a tiny glimpse of hope in her voice. He needed to give her that hope, desperately needed to.

Then, Jim came to the door, and as he opened it, he looked nervous, unsettled. Once Jim's face cleared, Rick looked down to see Kate's gun in his hand, a cautionary piece. Whatever they'd done since she'd been released from the hospital, he'd been spooked that whoever had shot her would eventually come back. Of course, that scared Rick as well.

"I'm sorry," Rick gave quickly, apologetically. "I should've called, but-"

"Dad? Who is it?"

"Did Katie tell you where we were?" Jim asked, his face solid and icy.

Rick nodded, said, "She called me last night and left a message."

Jim nodded slowly. With cautious motions, he opened the door further, invited Rick in. Once Rick headed through the door and into the cabin's main room, he finally let out a breath he'd been holding almost all day. The cabin was quaint, comfortable; the island table of the kitchen sat in the corner to his left while a couch and a few armchairs stood in the middle of the room. To his right, the walls were lined with endless bookshelves, a comforting sight for a bibliophile's eyes, and between the bookshelves sat a stone fireplace that had been built in among the logs of the log cabin. Above the fireplace, a flat-screen television sat, the tags and warranty stickers still on it. No matter what, this television hadn't been there before, not before...everything had happened. Far in front of him, there was a deck built onto the lake-facing edge of the cabin, so beyond sliding doors, the wooden deck led toward a dock right along the lake's edge. To his right, there was a small hallway, where he assumed one of the bedrooms was, and in the upper left corner, another door led to what he assumed was another bedroom.

Looking to the coffee-table next to the couch, he saw piles upon piles of DVDs, books, audiobooks, CDs, magazines, much of anything that could be used for entertainment. Everything from Russian literature to _She's the Man_ to a _Game of Thrones_ audiobook sat on that table; he could hardly imagine how bored she was, here all alone. Well, she had her father there, but at this point, the two of them must've been mutually tiring of each other's company, for she was condemned to the couch while he was condemned to her side, and knowing the Becketts, he knew that the two of them likely found such a situation to be their idea of hell. Countless times, Kate had likely told her father to go back to the city and to let her be, and even more times, Jim had likely told her that he, in fact, needed to be there with her. The arrangement went against both of their personalities, so they must've felt out of sorts by now.

"You have a lovely home," Rick gave, trying to figure out what exactly he could say to Jim in such a situation.

"Thank you," Jim gave as he ushered Rick into the cabin further. "She's out on the deck, but, please, be careful. She's healing well, but she's still..."

Rick nodded in understanding though he knew, for a fact, that he likely could never understand the pain she was in. Cautiously, he walked to the sliding doors, slid one away as he walked onto the vast deck.

They had a wooden swing-seat to his right, the top of the set laced with lit white Christmas lights. To his left, there were lounge chairs, lawn chairs, and a small table, where a citronella candle illuminated the night. Next to the candle, a glass of milky liquid, six fluorescent-orange pill bottles, and a copy of _War and Peace_ sat. Then, he saw her, her body thin and quiet as she lay on one of the lounge chairs, the chair leaned up ever-so-slightly so that she could look out on the lake. Though the night was still warm, she wore a sweatshirt that covered her frail frame and had a fleece blanket spread across her legs. With sunken cheeks and tired eyes, she looked less like her old self and more like a ghost.

"Castle? Is that you?"

Then, he looked down and met her eyes, so perfectly green as always, and in quick motions, he drifted to her, sat down in a chair alongside her so that their eyes were level with each other's.

"Hey," he gave quickly, still meeting her eyes.

Then, to his amazement, her lips curled up into a silly smile, a stark contrast to how she'd seemed moments beforehand, and then, she looked down, grinned sheepishly.

"Hey," she managed after a few moments, looking back up to him.

He wanted to kiss her, needed to feel for himself that she was still there, still alive. In fact, he needed more than that, needed to hold her and whisper that he was sorry until everything miraculously became better. However, now wasn't the time to do something drastic, so instead, he reached a hand out to hold hers, but unsurprisingly, she didn't move hers to his, so he retreated his hand.

"I got your message," he said, nodding.

Then, her smile faded as she bit her lip with embarrassment. Looking toward him, she said, "I'm sorry I didn't call, and...I'm sorry that I called during one of my less-fine hours."

"It's okay," he said, desperately wishing he could run his hands through her hair, could kiss her forehead and whisper that statement over and over again to her.

"I won't lie to you," she said, her eyes meeting his. "I didn't think you'd end up coming here."

"You didn't?"

He almost felt solemn.

"Well," she excused, taking in a breath, "I expected you to call me back, but you have a book to write, and you have your mother and Alexis, and-"

"The book's done, Alexis has a hundred-dollar bill to use at her disposal, and Hurricane Martha has never been under my control," Rick admitted, and then she smiled, resisted laughing as much as she could. Remembering when he'd broken ribs as a youngster, he realized that laughing likely put her in more pain, so from then on, he decided to keep the jokes to a minimum.

"Is that why you've got that stack of papers there?" she asked, glancing down to the Nikki Heat pages he'd brought.

Rick nodded quickly, said, "I figured you'd enjoy some reading material, so I brought by some advanced chapters. Gina's gonna kill me, but I honestly don't care."

Her lips curved up once more.

"Thank you."

"Always."

She smiled down to herself, then met his gaze once more.

"I honestly didn't think you'd come."

"I'm here now."

"It's a five-hour drive."

"It felt a lot longer than that."

"I can't believe you came."

"I couldn't just leave you hanging, could I?"

"Well, you could've, but..."

She trailed off, turned her eyes away from him.

"I could have left you hanging," he began for her.

"But I didn't want you to," she completed, her voice soft, intimate.

With the long pause that came, he looked out on the lake, a little place intended for summer escapades. Because school wasn't over just yet, most of the family summer homes on the lake were still uninhabited, so the lake was quiet, peaceful. Above them, little flecks of stars lined the now-dark skyline; the partial moon illuminated the lines of trees and the hills beyond the lake. Truly, this was a beautiful place, an escape that he understood why anyone would love.

Somehow, she still felt too far away even though he'd driven five hours to her.

"This may be entirely out of place to say," she gave a few minutes later, "but I think you were trying to hold my hand before, and if you were, then that's great. However, I don't get to take my nighttime pain medications for another half hour or so, so I'm not moving for the time being. If you'd like to hold my hand - which, mind you, I would be fine with - you can, but please realize that I'm not reciprocating only because of physical pain."

His heart clenched, but he nodded impartially anyway. From there, he leaned down, reached for her hand, and gingerly placed his hand over hers. Her pulse echoed against his wrist; her hand was clammy yet still warm; she was alive, present, alert. Once more, he exhaled a breath he'd likely been holding in all night.

Looking up to him, she gave a soft smile once more, and, of course, his heart melted once more.

"It's really good to see you again," she said.

"Kate, you have no idea how good it is to see you again."

"How long are you staying?"

"I...don't know."

"Do you have a room booked?"

"A what?"

"A hotel."

"Oh. Uh, no."

"You weren't planning on doing ten hours of driving in one day, were you?"

"I wasn't exactly planning in general."

"Castle."

"Beckett."

"We have a couch that you can take for the night, but you'd be much more comfortable at the Twin Lake Inn down the road," she said slowly. "Though it would be polite to ask you to stay for dinner, I'm on a diet, so you probably would appreciate a different meal much more. If you want something quick, the country story down the road has great burgers and fries, but if you're looking for something more like a meal, try Granby's on the big lake. If you forgot a toothbrush, head to the grocery store next to the nearest gas station. Other than those things, you'll probably be set for the night."

For the night? No, he didn't want to stay for just one night, but then again, he didn't know how long he wanted to stay. Forever, he reminded himself, but when it came to dates, _forever_ was irrelevant, so he had to think of his schedule. Because Gina needed a proposal for his next book by next weekend, he aught to head back to the city at some point, but he couldn't leave her here, not like this. He couldn't abandon her even though leaving would hardly mean abandonment at all; however, he couldn't pull himself away now, for she was alive, and he couldn't stop staring.

"Okay," was all he could manage.

After a moment, she matched with a quiet, "Okay."

"So, what exactly is this diet that you're on?" he asked, almost laughing. "Are you allowed solids?"

"Very funny," she said, giving him the look, "but I was only taken off of solids for the first day, and, let me tell you, I was a _witch_ because of it."

Of course, he laughed, and when she smiled as widely as she could, all of his hours of driving seemed suddenly even more worthwhile.

"They have me on a diet combination of heart-healthy and fattening foods," she said.

"That venn diagram sounds more like two circles."

"It essentially is."

"So what's on the menu?"

"Tonight? Tofu, brown rice with walnuts, broccoli, and, if I finish my plate, papaya slices and blueberries for dessert."

"Wow, sounds flavorful. Sign me up."

"If I could move, I would slap you right now."

"I can't hear you over the sound of the steak I'm going to eat tonight calling my name."

"You bastard."

"Are you even allowed coffee?" he asked, unable to understand how Kate would cope without it.

"_No_," she emphasized, her face fading. "Not even tea, and tea is _good_ for your heart!"

"Well, so is red wine."

"I'm not allowed any of that either!"

"And dark chocolate."

"_Castle._"

"Sorry. Shutting up."

He brushed his thumb over her hand, couldn't stop smiling because she was _alive_, and she was Kate, and for the moment, the rest of the world couldn't possibly matter.

"Castle?"

"Yes?"

"What time is it?"

Looking down, he checked his watch, said, "Around eight-thirty."

"Would you mind going inside and asking my Dad to come out here?" she asked, embarrassed. "Usually, we sit out here together and watch the sun set, but I guess he wanted us to..."

"Reconnect?"

"Yes," she said, "and I can't exactly..."

"Move without pain."

"Exactly."

"Alright," he said, his lips curling into a soft smile. "I'll be right back."

He stood slowly, had to concentrate on lifting his hand from hers because he couldn't bear to stop holding her like that, in the only way he possibly could. As he headed toward the sliding doors, he hardly wanted to leave her; he couldn't simply stand up and go back inside while he left her there, all alone on the deck. He couldn't-

"Castle?"

Quickly, he turned around, looked down to where she sat, a sheepish smile upon her lips.

"It's really good to see you again," she said honestly, looking up at him.

His mouth perked up.

"Believe me," he said. "The five hours of highways were worth it, Kate."

At the girlish grin she gave, he headed inside, pulled the doors closed behind him. Jim was talking on a landline in the kitchen; trying to be discreet, Rick walked in, but, of course, he brushed up against the coffee-table, so a stack of DVDs went cascading to the ground. At the clatter, Jim glanced over, so Rick mouthed an apology, picked up the rented copies of _Morning Glory_, _The First Wives Club_, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1_, and _Up in the Air_. Odd, he thought; he'd never pegged her for a fan of certain chick-flicks, but, then again, she _had_ enjoyed Temptation Lane for her reasons, and to be honest, he enjoyed the genre as well, had turned to _The First Wives Club_ for comfort before even though he would never admit to it. As he placed the pile of discs back on the table, he heard Jim hang up the phone, walked toward the island table in the kitchen.

"Hey," Rick tried.

"Hey," Jim gave back. "Let me guess. Katie needs to come in?"

"Uh. Yes."

"You know, she hasn't smiled once here, not until today."

And that hurt, but at the same time, that made him feel endless, for he had made her smile, but at the same time, he hadn't been able to make her smile on all of those other days. Of course, he _couldn't_ have made her smile on those other days, but nonetheless, he wished that he could've been then, if only to make her feel an ounce better.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rick said awkwardly.

"It's not a bad thing," Jim said, shrugging as he opened the fridge. "She's happy to see you. It's good for her."

Inside of the fridge, stacks upon stacks of labeled Tupperware stood, all taking up the space where sodas and mustards should've been. A carton of soy milk stood alone on the top shelf; thawing salmon stood on the door's shelf; spinach, carrots, and blueberries sat in the crisper drawers. A bleak meal plan, Rick thought as Jim took out a box labeled as _dinner_ for the current date.

"Fun meal plan, I take it," Rick said as Jim scooped perfect portions out onto a plate. "She must love it."

"Of all the things she could complain about, _this_," Jim said, pointing to the cubes of unseasoned tofu - _ew_ - and at the pile of nutty rice, all of the food looking too single-colored and too much like cardboard for his liking, "is all Katie complains about. Just this. Not the pills, not the lack of mobility, not the boredom. I swear, she'd be quiet as a mouse if we could let her have chocolate cake every once in a while."

"She could use to eat an entire cake," Rick said, nodding as he sat down on a chair near the island table. "She's getting...thin."

"Frail, you mean?" Jim asked as he brought the plate into the microwave, heated for thirty seconds. "Don't worry, it came up at her last doctor's appointment. The doc prescribed French fries daily. I reminded the doc of what she's recovering from. The doc then prescribed _organic_ fries. Specifically, organic sweet potato fries. I swear to you, Katie would've laughed straight in his face, but on doctor days, she isn't allowed her pain medication, so she was silent the entire time."

"How often has she been seeing a doctor?" Rick asked honestly, both out of curiosity and out of protectiveness.

"Two weeks ago, she was first taken to the hospital, a Monday; she was released from the hospital that Thursday, and since then, we've had doctor's appointments every Sunday and Thursday. We'll keep it to twice a week until she begins physical therapy, and from there, we'll adjust as we see necessary."

"That's...frequent."

"It's usually easy, just a basic blood panel once a week to be sure that no infections are developing and to check on the wounds. At this point, Katie's a pro. She doesn't even flinch when the needles hit her skin, and even I flinch when that happens."

"I realize that I may not have a right to ask about this," Rick tried cautiously, "but how have the treatments been financially?"

And then Jim sighed, deflated a bit. Yes, Rick thought, he's been thinking about that as well, and he doesn't like thinking about it. For any household, two doctor's appointments per week for at least a month on top of pharmacy refills and blood panels and wound dressings and every other part of her recovery would be financially hurtful; Rick could only hope that Kate's insurance covered at least some of the charge.

"I won't lie to you," Jim gave. "It hasn't gotten rough yet, but I know it will. You see, we only came up here last Friday, a little more than a week ago. Back then, I thought I could figure out a way to work from here while only commuting into the city once a week, or maybe even once every two weeks. Though I've managed to get through nine days, I'm not so sure how such a system will work going forward."

Rick nodded in understanding.

"Actually, I'm supposed to bring someone into court on Wednesday," Jim explained. "One of my law partners was just on the phone. We're trying to see if we can figure this out, but honestly, I need the pay for Katie, but I can't leave her here. Hopefully, we won't have to take out loans, but that's still a possibility."

"Let me help."

"What?"

"I have more than enough to let you take the time you need with her off from work," Rick explained. "Please. Honestly, it's the least I could do for you, for _her_."

Jim smiled smugly.

"You really like her, don't you."

It was a statement rather than a question.

Hesitating, Rick said, "I just know that if it were my daughter in this situation, I would most definitely prefer to worry about her happiness than to worry about the bills."

"You know, there's something else you could do for me that would help out plenty. No checks involved."

"Which is?"

Taking the plate from the microwave, Jim said, "Stay here with her while I go into the city for this case."

Rick opens his mouth to say something, but before he could speak, Jim continued.

"I can write out all of her prescriptions in detail," Jim explained quickly. "The meal plan is easy to follow; she can only eat a certain list of foods and nothing else. In summary, it's minimal sodium, minimal saturated fat and cholesterol, maximum heart health, maximum calories. She's hardly a challenge, especially because she's still in the early stages of recovery. Though she's usually awake, she may doze off during the day, and when she's awake, she typically reads or watches - _rewatches_ - films and television. After going through all of her recent appointments, she's a pro during her times with her doctors, so all you have to do is drive her to the hospital nearby. Believe me, I had to dog-sit for a friend once, and that dog was harder to take care of. Even during a lengthy recovery, Katie fends for herself. Of course, you have to force her to hold back sometimes, but otherwise, she's not a responsibility."

Responsibility? She was _Kate_, and that was that. For him, Kate could never be an obligation.

"Please," Jim said, meeting Rick's eyes. "If you want to help us out, this would be the best way to do so. Plus, Katie probably won't argue nearly as much about this as she would about a check with your name on it."

"Good point."

"Please, Rick?" Jim asked. "It would do me a lot of good, and obviously, it would do Katie a lot of good, and evidently, it would do _you_ a lot of good as well."

So, with a nod, Castle said, "Just write everything down, and go to court. She'll be in the best of hands."

"Honestly, thank you. This is more help than you can imagine."

"But still put the whole check idea on the backburner, okay?"

"If you can convince Katie to take free money, then you can probably make pigs fly."

"Even better point."

They were quiet for a moment as Jim took spinach, broccoli, and other vegetables from the crisper drawer in the fridge. Next, he placed papaya slices and blueberries in their own corner of the plate. As Jim slid the plate over to another seat at the table, Rick looked toward the sliding door and smiled; she _was_ getting dessert tonight.

* * *

He'd been told that cell reception was best where he'd parked, so before Jim brought Kate inside, Rick went out and dialed Alexis' number in the dark. Of course, she picked up.

"Dad? Where are you?" his daughter asked frantically. "Your notes are so vague. If my English teacher had read one, you'd fail her class."

"Very funny, Alexis."

"I'm being serious. Where are you?"

Looking around, Rick gave, "New Hampshire."

"_What?_"

"There's a lake here."

_And a Beckett. Two Becketts, in fact._

"Dad, you could've driven to Virginia in that time. Or D.C.! Or Pennsylvania. Or a whole array of other closer states. Why would you go to New Hampshire?"

"Beckett called."

"And?"

_And?_ Why would she need an _and?_

"And so I went to see her."

"No, you didn't just go to see her," Alexis said, her anger evident. "Just going to see her would mean walking to her apartment. No, this is different, six hours worth of different."

"It was only five hours."

"Not at _all_ my point."

"Then what _is_ your point?"

Alexis sighed, gave, "All you've done since she left is go to the precinct. When you aren't at the precinct, you're in your office, and honestly, I can tell when you're moping. You haven't been yourself since she left, Dad, and that's not healthy."

Yes, he hadn't been himself, but...that wasn't the point of this conversation. This wasn't a conversation about how he'd finally felt whole once he'd seen her again. Though he knew that the best of pairs stood strong alone, he'd had trouble standing strong when he could only picture Kate as a ghost, an apparition that only came to him in the worst of his dreams. Then, there was writing, and somehow, he drifted toward pointlessly sappy scenes, during which Rook used his phone to take an in-bed picture of Nikki, who was surrounded by white sheets like some kind of angel, flits of sunlight surrounding her brunette curls, but he knew that these scenes were no way to start another book. Murder seemed much less elusive when he felt that she could be the victim.

But seeing her again, goodness, it had made him feel whole again. However, he only needed to see her once in order to feel that way, so he could've gone home after seeing her for only five minutes, and from there, he would've gone to he precinct, and then he would've gone home, and he would've felt as though the world couldn't possibly be as bad as his mind had made it out to be. He would feel new reason in looking for her shooter; he would kiss his mother and daughter; he would write into the wee hours of the morning. Though she didn't complete him, he felt peace of mind knowing that she was alive. For now, it was enough.

"Yes," he said to Alexis, "but-"

"But _nothing_, Dad!" Alexis countered, not allowing Rick to explain. "On that day, you could've been shot. Hell, _I_ could've been shot. This is about more than just her. It's about your safety, your sanity. At least value those things. If not, I can value them enough for the both of us."

Rick was quiet. Though she had a point, he wanted to argue anyway.

Sighing again, Alexis asked, "When are you coming home?"

"In a couple of days."

"A couple of days?"

"Kate's father needs to go back to the city in order to work in court, so I offered to take care of her while he travels."

"You have that book proposal that you need to work on."

"And it'll be in on time. Even if I were in the city, I'd likely leave it until the last minute. You know that."

With one last sigh, Alexis gave, "Be careful, Dad, okay?

"I'll be careful, pumpkin."

"Okay," Alexis said. "Bye, Dad. Love you."

"Love you too, Pumpkin."

And once Alexis hung up, he paused, looked out across the lake. Though he aught to be in the city, he felt as though he was needed here, both for Kate and for Jim, so, in theory, he could go back to the city, but instead, he had Kate here, so he needed to be here. Therefore, calling the inn Kate had recommended and booking a room so late in the evening was something he needed to do, not something he simply wanted to do; the evident difference between a need and a want was apparent as he asked for a single bed, directions to somewhere open for dinner this late. Before heading back into the cabin, he stopped at his car, opened up the passenger's door, and placed his phone on the seat. No matter what, he wouldn't let anyone interrupt the night.

Going back into the cabin, he slipped into the place easily; Jim had headed off elsewhere, so now, only he and Kate were in the living room. She lay on her back on the couch, and with her feet flat and her knees raised, she rested the Nikki Heat pages against her thighs. When he closed the door behind himself, she slowly closed the pages over her fingers, looked up toward him.

"Hey, Castle," she said, her voice quiet, sleepy. "I thought you'd headed out."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I would've told you first."

"Want to sit down?" she asked, shifting slightly, but at that, he motioned for her to stop, and instead, he sat down on the floor with his back against the couch cushions.

He folded his legs against the coffee-table, and when she gingerly brought her hand to his shoulder, his breath halted as his mind stirred. No where in their history had they done this, this touching, this contact; most commonly, they were close in minds and far in bodies, but now, she looked for his hand to hold, so he reached his right hand across to hold her left, entwined his fingers with hers. Though he wanted to know why, he dared not ask.

"You're moving about much better," he commented as he stroked his thumb over hers. So long as she allowed contact, he wanted to know exactly where his boundaries were.

"Post-dinner pills. Also known as the best part of the day," she said. "It's a heavier dose before bed. Before, I couldn't sleep, so they upped them. In half an hour, I won't be able to speak in coherent sentences."

At that, he smiled widely, tried not to laugh for fear that she would laugh as well, and if she laughed, she could feel pain, and if he dared bring her pain, goodness, he didn't want to know how that would feel.

"How have you been, Rick?" she asked, her voice still soft. "I mean, we spoke about me, but..."

She trailed off, so he glanced back to her, saw a certain sense of concern in her eyes. Though she was frail and off-the-grid, she longed for information, information that she likely withheld from herself in order to keep herself safe. However, she still had that longing, that knowing that came along with realizing how bad something was for her even though she adored it so much.

"I've been fine," he said, rather lied.

"You finished the book. That's good. What else have you been doing?"

"Not much."

"Oh, come on. Was there at least one release party you can tell me about?"

"No."

She paused. "Oh."

She was quiet for a moment, and then, she brushed her thumb over his, but now, he didn't want to have those gestures; in light of seeing her, he'd forgotten how he'd been for the past two weeks. Though he'd always pictured her as being the walking ghost, he somehow had become one as well, and he wasn't the one who'd been shot. He wasn't the hurt one, yet he'd needed to see her, had this feeling deep within himself of want as he'd driven to see her. Of course, she was injured, had to take that startling array of pills, but there had been nights when he'd skipped alcohol and gone to Benadryl instead in hope of some soundless sleep. Maybe Alexis is right, Rick thought; Kate wasn't good for him, but as she brushed her thumb over his once more, he wanted to be there, to be with her, for she was beautiful, and she was strong beyond any comparison he could make, and in this entire damned world, he couldn't find salvation until he knew that she was breathing. And he loved her, the most obvious of all of his thoughts, and despite his admission of it, he still couldn't let her know. The planets are against us, he'd once used as an explanation after two shots of whiskey; that was why she hadn't heard him. In the end, he didn't know if he'd be able to say it out loud again even though those three words were still on the tip of his tongue.

"How's Alexis?" Kate asked, hushed as she switched topics.

"Great," Rick said, almost proudly. "She's excited to be done with junior year. However, that means that she has something new on her plate."

"Which is?"

He groaned. "College visits."

With that, Kate laughed lightly; though he wished it wouldn't, his heart melted once more.

"So the father of the soon-to-be graduate isn't into looking at universities?" she asked.

"It's..." he paused, his words coming too slowly. "It's the first time I haven't been able to do everything in my power to make her happy, you know? Of course, I've messed up sometimes, but for this, it's her thing, _her_ acceptance. And she's ambitious, as you know, so she isn't going to back down from a challenge, and I...don't want to see her lose that over a letter, you know?"

She squeezed his hand. He tensed.

"I know," she gave.

He nodded, then said, "And then there's the distance, which I'll have to get over, but the loft will be so empty without her too. Not the good kind of empty."

"Empty Nest Syndrome. You'll still have Martha."

"In this imagining, the queen has left Chez Castle."

Kate laughed lightly again. God, that sound. He swore that it intoxicated him.

"It won't be the end, Castle," Kate told him. "It's a new beginning for her, and at first, it'll seem overwhelming, both for you and for her. However, it'll eventually get easier. No matter how great you two get along, you'll get along even better once she moves out. And she's so smart and so responsible, so even when she goes through inevitably worse times, she'll know what to do, and if she doesn't know what to do, she'll know to ask for help. Rick, she's prepared for this, and though nothing I - order anyone else - can say will convince you of that, you'll eventually see that she can do this. Help her when she needs it, and let her fail if she has to. She's going to be great, I promise."

And with that, he looked back at her, a wondering brow in her glance to her.

"Sometimes, I forget that you were a girl once."

"Still am."

At that, he smiled.

"You're still avoiding my question," she said.

"Remind me of what it was?"

She rolled her eyes, said, "I wanted to know what you've been up to."

"Oh. Yeah."

_That._

"I've been..." he tried. "I've been heading to the, uh, precinct. Recently, that is. Sometimes. And, well, the boys are there, and the, uh, new captain is going in come in, well, sometime next week, I think."

At that, he could feel Kate's hand tense, but she tried to play off her tenseness, tried not to let her voice crack as she asked, "What have you been working on?"

And he couldn't let himself lie as he said, "The shooting."

He refused to say _your shooting_, for they'd always called it _the shooting_ at the precinct, unable to put Kate's name in front of that word. Though reality still stood, they - he and the boys - dared not acknowledge it, not now. When she returned to the precinct, they might be able to change the word, but for now, it was _the shooting_, never _her shooting_.

Swallowing, she asked, "Any new leads?"

Though saying so stung, he forced out, "No."

"Castle, don't lie to me about this," she said, her voice suddenly on edge.

"I'm not lying to you, Kate," he said honestly. "We've been over it hundreds of times, and every time we find a lead, it's a dead end. It may not seem like it, but we're trying, Kate, which you would know if you'd called before now."

_Oh, shit._

He'd let that slip, and yes, now he was ashamed. Though she hadn't kept the promise that she would call within a few days, she wasn't in the place to be blamed; he could blame her when they were back at the precinct, when she was okay again, but right now, as she lay helpless, like a child, on that couch, she didn't deserve his jabs. The least he could offer her was a chance to fight back.

Then, she retreated her hand, and with that, he regretted his statement even more.

"Kate, I'm sorry," he tried, meaning it as he spoke.

"No, it's fine. You're _right_," she said, and she was making that face, the one he knew meant frustration because she didn't want him to be right even though he was. "I should've called, and I shouldn't be asking about this anyway. It's fine."

And then they were silent for a long while, his mind swimming in thoughts of how he shouldn't have said that, but at the same time, he should've. As Alexis had said, Kate wasn't the best person for him to be around, but if he wanted to prove that wrong, he couldn't feel this terribly about stating the truth. She should've called, and so long as she knew that, he could have peace of mind. However, he wanted to hear her side, wanted to know _why_ she'd only called him on a three-in-the-morning whim. If she couldn't tell him why, then they surely couldn't save each other in this _thing_, this partnership that they were in. He needed honesty, and though he'd originally trusted her for honesty, he was unsure if she could be honest about all of this, for honesty would mean trouble for this; honesty would mean heavy emotions, hard triumphs, strength that he knew she had but that he knew she would be afraid to use. For this, honesty would mean feeling afraid, and at the moment, he couldn't trust her to put herself in the way of more fear. Though he wished it weren't so, this situation of theirs was tainted, was never going to end harm-free, so instead, he could only coax her, could try to tell her that fear was alright for now, and if she didn't want to feel fear, he could wait, but he could only wait so long.

"Castle," she tried, her voice raw, "I need you to understand that I don't want to seem damaged to you. I'm still here, and though it may not seem that way from time to time, I'm still who I was before all of this happened, just like you, even if you don't realize it. However, I'm not in the right place right now, so any support you have would be more helpful than you could imagine. And...ever since my mother passed, I've built up this wall, one intended to keep me from being attached to others, and now, that wall has only worsened, so if I don't respond the way you think I should..."

She paused.

"If I ever seem as though I don't care, please, realize that I'm only trying to cope," she said, reaching her hand back down to his shoulder. "I'm not in the right place right now, Castle, but, believe me, I wish more than anything that I could be there, and maybe, I'll feel free when I get there. However, I'm not there yet, so please, be patient. One day, I promise that I'll come around."

So he nodded, the back of his head brushing against her left side and forcing her to hiss back, to cringe, and when he turned around to look at her, he saw her biting her lip, her brow furrowed, her eyes shut in pain.

"Kate, I'm sorry," he tried again, this time much more apologetically. "I'm...I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine, Castle," she said, tenseness still in her voice as she tried to relax back down into the couch. "Just...healing wounds."

"I'm sorry. I'm-"

"It's okay," she insisted, opening her eyes again.

He nodded slowly, this time much more conscious of where the back of his head was. How poetic was it, that he could bring her shooting pains with only one wrong movement?

"I should be heading out soon," he said, standing up quickly. "I need to eat, and-"

"Rick."

As he stood above her, she seemed too small, too frail. She wore clothes that were never intended to see the light of day, had a long line of pill bottles left on the kitchen counter, could only eat certain things. Though he wished she weren't, she was hurt, and now, he couldn't do anything about it. However, he could help her heal, both physically and mentally, and though helping her would be a hard task, he would put himself forward, for he loved her, truly loved her. Even if she needed time and space, he would be there for her in any way he could, whether he needed to be near her or far from her.

"Don't leave on that note," she insisted. "Not on a bad one, okay?"

Looking down toward her, he saw that sheer intimacy in her eyes, that thankfulness for seeing him that she'd shown before. Goodness, he could never give up on her, never.

"Okay," he said. "Want me to sit back down?"

"Could you?"

"Of course."

So he sat back down, and as he found a comfortable position, he asked, "How are you liking the new book so far?"

Grinning, she said, "You'll see. Do you mind if I turn the TV on?"

"Not at all," he said, though he wished she could've answered his question more thoroughly. "What's on?"

"Season one of 30 Rock on disc," she said. "I just caught up on Parks and Recreation, all of it from the beginning, so I needed something new to watch."

"Bored, are we?"

She groaned.

"Out of my mind."

He passed her the remote, which sat haphazardly atop a rented DVD of _Matilda_, and as she turned the television over the fireplace on, he sat there, comfortably silent. Though he'd missed the first few minutes of this episode, he still attentively watched, laughed at the funny parts, but what he found far more interesting than the episode was the way Kate's hand drifted down to his shoulder once more, and when he took her fingers in his, he swore that not leaving was the best decision he'd ever made. Whenever she laughed, she squeezed his hand involuntarily, and during quieter moments, she held his hand just a bit closer to hers.

Back when Alexis had been younger, they'd read _Harry Potter_ together, and upon learning about the patronus, Alexis had been infinitely intrigued. The spell would protect whoever cast it; in order to cast the spell, the wizard or witch had to think of their happiest memory. Then, the patronus would take the shape of animal, a different animal among most people. For Alexis, her patronus, supposedly, was a rabbit; Rick had insisted that his would be a lion, so brave and bold, but instead, Alexis had told him that a house cat would be much more suitable. However, he liked the idea of a silver lion that would protect him as he thought of his happiest memory. When he and Alexis had cast spells throughout their living room, he had merely pretended to think of a happy moment, but now, he had no trouble in finding one, for sitting with her like this, feeling warm and appreciated and jovial, had to be one of his better moments. Of course, this was, by far, not his _happiest_ moment, but if he ever needed fodder for a patronus, he would think of this night, sitting here with her while Liz Lemon made a quip about product placement.

And what would Kate's patronus be? He didn't bother thinking of her happiest memory, for he could easily ask about that. However, he wanted to know what animal hers would be cast as. A dog could be suiting, he thought, a lone wolf, a loyal friend. Despite the match she had with a dog, he felt as though she was more than her loyalty; instead, she had a certain strength to her beyond what dogs had, though he knew that dogs were strong, so he thought of other animals. Could she be an eagle? A bear? A stag?

_A phoenix._

It was the perfect match in his humble opinion, and with ease, he could imagine this room, this darkened room lit by candle-like lamps and by the television screen before them, filled with the silver sheen from the paths of his lion and her phoenix, who now sat quietly beside them. As her phoenix perched on the top of the couch, his lion leaned on his paws alongside Rick and below Kate's legs. Both animals were calm, collected, and sleepy as Kate held his hand, and now, he felt the same way as well.

And then, he was sure; it would be impossible to keep him from being there for her.


	2. Chapter 2, Part I

_A/N: I may or may not have three (now two?) whole unposted chapters of this written right now. This chapter is, in actuality, around 15,000 words, but I decided to cut it into two parts. Though I would've posted this earlier, I wanted to post the two parts of this chapter together, but a certain scene in the second part just isn't coming together yet, so I'm posting this alone for now. Sadly, the action isn't quite happening yet, but I promise that there are more exciting things to come. Stay tuned. Or don't. Your choice._

* * *

There was an odd loneliness that came over him as he tried to sleep that night.

The inn was beautiful, historic; the rooms were more like rooms in a mansion than like hotel rooms, but nonetheless, he had a bathroom to himself, a closet, a new toothbrush thankfully left by the sink. In fact, this was the most wonderfully furnished hotel room he'd ever been in, for the bed had a late sixteenth-century style canopy around it, and the curtains were evidently hand-sewn, and the closets had polished brass handles. Though he'd stayed in more expensive places, this room felt as though it could be home for the night. The blankets on his bed were warm in this cool house, but still, he felt lonely as he stuck to the left side of the bed, not touching the right.

As he'd done countless times beforehand, he found himself imagining her there at three in the morning, when his thoughts could be brash without his realization. He wondered how it would feel to have her be the big spoon, to have her lips against his shoulder; he wondered what holding Kate Beckett close would feel of, how having her in his arms would be. Though he knew he shouldn't, he then thought of kissing her, a sensation he barely had to imagine anymore, for they'd kissed once, and although they had been undercover, he wished - more than wished - that she hadn't wanted it to be meaningless. Admittedly, he _had_ caught her off-guard late at night, so her lips felt a tad chapped against his, her breath almost reeking of late-night coffee, but she had felt warm, alarmingly whole as she had initiated the second kiss. He could still remember the look in her eyes between kisses, a look of surprise, of unsureness, of sudden want.

But thinking of her was useless, for she had a boyfriend, and he had...he had other things to think about. Like his book proposal. Yes, his book proposal. He really needed to write that. However, he fell asleep thinking of her, not of the fictional version of her.

He _could_ be impartial for a few days, couldn't he? The night beforehand, she had admitted that she wasn't in the right place, and she still had a boyfriend, a boyfriend that he...wouldn't make a comment on. All he had to do was take care of her when she needed care; that was it. However, he wished that weren't all when an alarm on his phone sounded, a seven-in-the-morning call that he wished he hadn't set. Four hours of sleep was enough to function, wasn't it? He didn't even bother snoozing. Instead, he stood up, went to shower before he could rethink everything he'd done since he'd arrived in New Hampshire.

When he began to imagine what it could be like to shower with Kate Beckett, he became much less sure of his impartiality.

* * *

The radio station he'd tuned the car to became more interesting the next morning, when pop tunes shifted to a morning run of Rupert Holmes. Strange, he thought as he turned the volume up. Because he had grown up in New York, many other places felt strange to him; he couldn't navigate outside of the city without a GPS, he'd had to learn synonyms for Duane Reade, and he occasionally forgot that he couldn't go out at two in the morning to buy extra paper towels if he happened to need them. This lack of radio stations - or the need for one at all - made him feel almost as though he were abroad. Despite the early time, he quietly hummed along to _if you like piña coladas_, tried not to feel uncomfortable by the sheer lack of traffic on all of the lakeside roads. These roads desperately needed a new paving, but at the same time, he liked humming _if you'd like making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape_ as he hit one, two, three separate bumps.

The world was a lovely, dewy quiet as he took the turns in the twenty-five zone at forty while "Simply Irresistible" took over the radio station. Then, he bobbed his head back and forth, tired as he could be during this drive. How far away even was the cabin? When he'd driven out to the inn, he'd been in a trance, one created from the succulent steak he'd eaten at the restaurant that Kate had recommended and from the way she'd squeezed his hand one last time before he'd left the cabin. Though he knew he couldn't, he wanted to bring her coffee so that at least something would feel normal, but she wasn't allowed coffee, and anyway, he would've had to drive at least an hour to find the nearest coffee chain. From how tired he was, the idea of returning to her seemed natural, yet it was so unnatural, for he'd spent weeks hoping that she was breathing, and now, he knew that she was, and he was going to stay with her for a few days, and _she's so fine, there's no tellin' where the money went_, and he bobbed his head more and more, and he found himself rapt in thought about her once more. When he passed the twisted tree, he sobered, cursed as he tried to find another driveway to turn around in. Luckily, no other cars were on the road, so he turned around in a narrow driveway, came at the cabin's road from the opposite direction.

After he'd parked in the cabin's driveway, he headed inside, the outdoor morning winds off of the lake cooling his bare skin. For late May, the day was cold, but he didn't mind the cool just yet, for as he entered the cabin, the living room was warm, lively; he could smell warm food, the scent of strawberries and cream, and then, he saw her sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, her back pressed against the spindle, her legs swallowed by lilac-colored sleep pants, her eyes down, solemn. She slowly turned her head toward where he stood, and within moments, her eyes perked up, reacting faster than her lips seemed to. With the most glorious of tiny smiles, she looked toward him, and now, he knew that he couldn't possibly leave her, for she wasn't ready yet, but she wanted to be in a better place, and, damn it, she looked so _alive_, and the place was so warm, and though the weather had called for rain later in the day, he swore that she would outshine any bleak skies.

And she had a boyfriend. Right. She still had a boyfriend.

"Hey, Castle," she gave, her voice soft and sleepy.

No, she didn't have a boyfriend, or, at least, that was what he wanted to think.

In quick motions, he came over to the kitchen table, sat down alongside her as she stared down a bowl of oatmeal. Goodness, that stuff smelled good, and with little slices of strawberries over the creamy bowl, he wondered why she was barely touching any breakfast.

"I wasn't expecting you to come by," she admitted on an exhale. "I mean, it's at least five hours back to the city, and-"

"Wait," he paused her, unsure as he met her glance. "Your father didn't tell you?"

"Didn't tell me what?"

On that note, Jim opened up the door to the right of the kitchen, where Rick presumed a bedroom was. Jim held a lightweight suitcase in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

"Rick, good to see you," Jim said as he came into the kitchen, where he paused only to take his car keys from off of a nearby counter.

Then, the older man pushed open the door, headed outside to where his car was parked. Following him with her eyes, Kate watched as he popped the trunk, as he put down the two bags. When Jim returned to the kitchen, Kate looked from her father to Rick and then to her father again, her gaze flummoxed as she bit her lip.

"What's going on?" she ventured after moments of uncomfortable silence.

"Well-"

"I have a case, so I need to go back to the city for the afternoon. Rick volunteered to stay while I'm in New York," Jim said as he grabbed a meal bar from the pantry. "It'll only be a few days."

Rick tried, "What he said."

Narrowing her eyes to Rick, Kate asked her father, "And why couldn't Jack come by and stay with me instead?"

Jim shrugged. "Because I figured Rick would be better company than any of the neighbors would be. Plus, I didn't ask Jack."

"And I wasn't clued in on this because...?"

Jim shrugged once more. "I wasn't sure if you'd be able to sleep last night knowing that I would be so many miles away."

She gave her father the elusive _look_ that she used most often when Castle had brought up the C.I.A. for the second time on a case.

"Well, I'd best be going," Jim said, but before he dashed out, he headed over to the couch, picked up a packet of papers left there. "Rick, everything you'll need to know is in here. If anything comes up, don't hesitate to call, and if it's urgent, call until I pick up no matter what time of day it is, okay?"

"Okay," Rick managed, but mostly, he was focused on the discomfort throughout Kate's features, the uncomfortable stature she held that matched her glare toward him.

As Jim put the papers down and headed to the door, he crossed over toward Kate, kissed the top of her head while she still glared at Castle. With emphasis, Jim told her, "Behave."

Kate rolled her eyes as her father left the cabin. Once his car had started, he wasted no time, so within moments, Jim was gone. Not daring to confront the elephant in the room, Rick padded over to the couch, where his instructions lay. The packet was at least ten pages long, and when he flipped through the thing, he found countless phone numbers for a dizzying array of doctors, detailed descriptions of each of her medications, a basic schedule for the day. Shocked, Rick looked over the lengthy descriptions of Kate's days, but he didn't even skim the passages, not when she still had lingering anger keeping her from speaking.

"An instruction manual for Katherine Beckett," he said suavely.

Looking over to her, he saw only the back of her head. No laughter, no smiling, no hand-holding.

"You know, I used to think that I would give an arm and a leg for one of these."

She still didn't react to his comment. Now, he was concerned.

"Come to think of it, this is alarmingly thin, and the answers I've been looking for are rather straightforward."

"Castle."

And it was strange, how many different ways she could say his name; this comment sounded like a strain for her, as though she was already exhausted by and through with his silly comments. At that, he was more than sure that she was angry, so he returned to the kitchen table, sat down alongside her, hoped that talking this out could help. However, she still wouldn't speak up. In fact, she didn't seem to do much at all, for she wasn't even eating. She stared down into her bowl relentlessly, and her focus centered on the deep, lengthy inhalations and exhalations she forced through her body.

"I'm sorry," he tried, a shot out into the darkness.

She closed her eyes in annoyance.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his tone open.

Opening her eyes but keeping her gaze down, she gave, "Read the first part of that."

Assuming she meant _the manual_, he picked up the packet of papers, looked at the first part of Kate's usual day, specifically the _breakfast_ section.

_She can't take her morning medications until after she eats something. If she tells you that that's a bunch of bogus, don't listen. Though she'll fight you on it at first, she'll manage to get something down before nine passes._

"No appetite in the morning?" he asked.

"Plenty of appetite. Too much pain."

That explains it, he thought; that's why she'd been so focused on her breathing, on all singular ideas. Still, her bowl remained untouched.

"Nonetheless, you should-"

"Castle, don't."

So he quieted, kept his eyes on her as he lungs filled with air once more.

"Kate, tell me what's wrong," he said, his voice edging on worried.

"Have you ever taken care of someone who isn't able-bodied?"

Her words cut, as though they'd been a weapon she'd been wielding throughout the conversation, waiting for her attack. Though he wasn't sure, he thought her question was rhetorical.

"Have you?"

_Oh._

It wasn't.

"No," Castle gave as she faced him.

"Then you wouldn't understand."

Bringing her glance back to her bowl, she slowly stirred the oats one way, tried to force herself to take a spoonful. In the end, she left the spoon in the bowl, rested her hand against the counter.

"Beckett," he tried to reason. "You can't just run away from this conversation. Please, talk to me."

He brought his hand over to entwine his fingers with hers, but in a shaky motion, she drew hers away.

"Kate," he insisted, his eyes sternly concerned as he looked to her.

Her gaze remained down.

"Where did he say that my pills were?" she asked him slowly.

"You need to eat something first."

"I'll be fine if I don't."

"I highly doubt that."

"They just give me an upset stomach. It's not a big concern."

"These are narcotics, Kate. They, by definition, are a big concern."

She breathed out a long sigh.

"None of them are narcotics anymore. I'm off of the good stuff. Give me my pills."

"Not until you eat something."

She closed her eyes in annoyance.

"Well," she gave, defeated, "I can't eat if you watch me the entire time."

"Okay," he reasoned.

He stood up, and while he headed to the couch again, he sat down this time, kept his papers from Jim on his lap. Moments later, he glanced back to Kate, who now - thankfully - was forcing a spoonful into her mouth.

"I can feel you watching me."

"Oh. Sorry."

He began to read the pile of papers, the sound of Kate's spoon hitting the bottom of the ceramic bowl being a sound of victory to him. Based on the number of medications she was on, he was sure that little colorful pills worked as some kind of internal glue that he liked to imagine; he could picture these pills looking like little wads of chewed gum, sticking around her insides and making sure that her internal puzzle pieces stuck together. Or, at least, he chose to look at it that way, for if he thought about how _Cefotetan_ and _Percocet_ and _NSAIDs_ actually worked within her body, he would be so sick with sadness for her that he wouldn't feel prepared to take care of her. Instead, he tried to be impartial as he thought of each of her medications; if he was detached, then he would be able to keep his head up.

Though he knew he shouldn't, he felt satisfaction each time he heard her swallow. According to Jim's instructions, she was only allowed a narcotic if the pain was absolutely unbearable, but for now, she had to stick to Advil, a concept that Rick couldn't seem to understand; she'd been shot, yet the only pain reliever she was allowed was what he took on the few occasions when he had a headache. In addition, she took two antibiotics twice daily in order to kill any infections; from there, she took sleeping pills when necessary and had to clean her wounds two times daily, one of those times with prescription wash and the other with mild soap. Jim's warnings were clear, so he knew that Kate would be hesitant to eat in the morning, knew that she may sleep in small increments throughout the day, understood that he had to help her do most things. If she needed something, he would need to bring it to her, even if it was something so seemingly easy to pick up, such as a glass of water or a tissue. When she couldn't reach the remote, he would have to reach it for her.

Then, he read on in the pieces of paper, saw that he needed to do much more beyond that as well. Every night, he would need to help her into bed, and every morning, he would need to help her out of bed; wherever she walked, he would have to hold her as she did so. At night, he was to sleep in Jim's room, where fresh linens awaited him, but he had to check on her every three hours during the night. Every other day, she was to take a shower, a process that was nearly too complicated to have written down; he would need to cover her wounds in water-resistant material and to wash her hair for her. If her pain was too severe, he would need to dress her. Of course, he would've found the concept of seeing Kate Beckett naked enticing under normal circumstances, but after reading through her father's instructions, he could only picture her as a terrified, bare woman in that state, one arm covering her breasts while another desperately tried to cover up in between her thighs. Even picturing that image in his head made him feel sick.

_So how must it feel for her?_

And then it all came together, her anger, his confusion. The night beforehand, she'd told him that she wasn't ready, but this, this would force her on. Because he was there doing intimate but unromantic things for her, she would be bare to him, both figuratively and literally, and the prospect of that scared her so greatly that the Kate he'd seen last night was hardly there anymore. She didn't want him to see her like this, and from his years of knowing Kate Beckett, he knew that she would feel violated if he saw her helpless; what could he do to possibly make that better?

For one, he could look away, but even that couldn't help too greatly, could it?

Standing up, he returned to the kitchen table, where she had just finished her bowl of oatmeal.

"Down to the very lat spoonful," she said, letting the spoon down with a _clang._

"Kate-"

"Pills."

"Kate-"

"Castle, get me my pills."

"Kate-"

"_Castle._"

He sighed. "Alright."

Her pills were in a drawer in her father's room - not that her father didn't trust her during the night, but pain turns people into vicious beings, Jim himself being a firsthand veteran of the feeling - so he took each bottle out of the drawer, pulled out the number of each that Jim had written down. Returning, he placed each pill on the table, then went into the cupboards for a glass.

"Kate-"

"Pills, Castle. I can't think right now."

"Okay."

He took a glass, filled it with water from the sink. As soon as he set the glass down beside her, she ravenously took two pills into her mouth, and - oh - swallowed them together. She barely waited to take the next two, but these two, she took one by one. When the Advil began to kick in, he watched a tiny smile form on her lips. Taking a deep breath in, she closed her eyes, elated.

"Advil's that good, huh?" he joked.

"No, it still hurts," she said, her voice quiet, "but I can breathe."

"Oh."

They were silent for a long while as she took slow, deep breaths. On each exhale of hers, he tried to find words, tried to come up with some way to apologize for having come here. One night, that was all she had needed, just one night during which he had held her hand and had smiled at her as though - _because_ - he loved her. Now that he was here to stay, he would see every facet of her, and for all of her reasons of pride, intimacy, and friendship, she at least deserved some privacy. It was a mistake for him to volunteer to take care of her. Instead, he should've left a check on the kitchen table in hope that Jim would cash it. Though he'd thought that volunteering to take care of her would make him a hero in the Becketts' minds, he instead seemed more like a pompous ass.

"I should've warned you first," he apologized. "I should have asked if this would be okay, and I should've gone home if you wanted me to. You're right; your father could've asked one of the neighbors to help out, but I wanted to make sure that you were okay, Kate."

Finally, she met his glance, saw the honest, apologetic look in his eyes.

"If you want me to go home and want one of the neighbors to stop by instead, that's fine," Castle gave. "I can call them, and I can head home. It's up to you, Kate, and I'm sorry that I didn't realize that sooner."

She looked down toward the bowl that still sat in front of her; stewing over the statement, she was momentarily still.

"I'm not going to be the way I was yesterday," she said, turning toward him once more. "Yesterday, I was...I was happy to see you, Castle. However, I'm not always happy nowadays, and I'm not always smiling or always ready for adventure."

Castle nodded in understanding. Had he seen her all day yesterday, he would've realized this with ease. Although she'd been glad to see him, she'd still been in pain, and she'd still been forced onto a constricted meal plan, and she'd still had to face the outcome of her shooting.

"I know," was the best that he could say back.

Looking into his eyes, she said, "If you still want to stay despite that, Castle, then stay. If, however, you can't deal with that, then please head home, for both of our sakes."

"I still want to stay."

His response was a little too quick; after all, he loved her, but she wasn't supposed to know that despite his best attempts.

"Partners, right?" he tried to cover up. "Through thick and thin. In sickness and in health."

Oh. That last part hadn't been the best thing to say. However, she sucked her lips into a grin, rolled her eyes at him.

"Partners," she agreed, looking to him with a grin that took his breath away.

He could do this. For them, he could do this. However, he wasn't sure as to what exactly he was supposed to do; at the moment they sat awkwardly at the kitchen table, her focus going from the cabin's door to her bowl. He steepled his fingers; she bit her lip; he counted to sixty; she picked at one of her nails. In need of something to do, he consulted _the manual_, found that Jim had spelled out exactly what to do after breakfast.

_Bring her either back to bed or to the couch. If she asks to go out to the porch, let her, but don't stay out for more than a few minutes because the antibiotics let her sunburn easily. Usually, she occupies herself until lunch; I most commonly work during that time._

"Beckett?" he asked.

She hummed in response.

"Do you want to go over to the couch?"

"No, I'm fine right here."

"It's boring right here."

She shrugged. Or, rather, she seemed to shrug, for her face shrugged even though her shoulders stayed in one place.

"It's not _that_ boring."

"It's totally boring."

"I don't need to move, Castle."

"Is the pain too bad to move? If so, then I can carry you."

"I'm not in the mood for your theatrical attempts at heroism. You're not allowed to carry me, and that's final."

"But bridal-style with you? It would be like carrying a sack of potatoes that didn't have any potatoes in it. Your muscles can probably lift themselves into my arms."

She didn't grin at the statement, simply went back to picking at her fingernails as she seemed indifferent.

"Kate, we can't keep having elephants in the room," he gave, his eyes on her once more. "You need to talk to me."

Letting out a slow breath, she said, "Fine. Let's go to the couch."

"Okay."

But how was he supposed to do this? Consulting _the manual_, he saw that he was supposed to help her walk, but he wasn't sure as to how. Luckily, she eased herself out of the chair, her breath hitching as she did so; he was at her side quickly, and as he held his arms out, tried to support her in any way he could, she closed her eyes, humiliation coming across her face.

"Kate-"

"I need you on my right side, your left arm going back around to hold my hip."

Her instructions were textbook; he did as she said, but when he went to hold her hip, he hesitated.

"Keep the hand low, and whatever you do, don't hold down on the surgical scar."

Gingerly, he put his palm around her hip, their sudden closeness making it hard for him to breathe. As she brought her right arm up beneath his left, she gripped onto his ribcage, stabled herself that way.

"Walk slowly. I'll catch up."

He slowly shuffled forward, slowed even further as she lagged behind him. Based on her little indicators - her expression, her breathing, a cower - he could tell that this greatly pained her, but she dared not admit that. Instead, she leaned on him, looked for his help as he tried to settle her down on the couch. He brought her to a seated position, and from there, she managed to lie down on her own, but while she lay there, she had to catch her breath, as though walking from the kitchen to the living room had been a marathon-run. Standing above her, he watched, looked for some indication that she was okay before he went on to another task.

Uncomfortably, she draped a hand over her eyes, said, "Stop looking at me."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just stop looking at me."

"Okay."

So he turned around, faced the television instead. However, he turned back nearly instantly.

"Do you want the remote?"

"Stop looking at me."

He covered his eyes with one palm.

"Do you want the remote now?"

"No."

"Okay. Is there anything else I can get you?"

She paused as her breath calmed slowly.

"Never mind. Could you pass me the remote?" she asked.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Beckett, something's wrong."

"_Castle._"

"Elephants, Beckett. You need to talk to me."

How absurd it was, to tell Kate Beckett that they needed to talk while both of them covered their eyes. There could, in theory, have been a live elephant in the room, yet neither of them would've seen it. However, its presence would have been blatantly made.

She sighed out, this time not looking for a fight. With discomfort in her voice, she asked, "Would you mind going into my bedroom and bringing me back the Nikki Heat chapters? They're on the desk."

"Okay," he gave softly.

He felt an odd satisfaction as he uncovered his eyes and went to head for where he assumed her bedroom was. Though she'd never admitted to being a fan, he still knew that, deep down, she was, yet hearing her ask for his chapters affirmed that belief in a way that made him smile. However, his smile turned to a frown as he recalled how embarrassed she'd sounded, as though she hadn't wanted him to know that she wanted to read his chapters. Though he'd made it clear that he was there to keep her safe, not to feel like he was a better person, he hadn't told her that she needn't be humiliated around him. Of course, bringing her to the couch had terrified him, from the way she knew the positioning to the way she could hardly breathe afterward, but he didn't pity her, not in the least; instead, he wanted to hug her, wanted to kiss her and tell her that she'd be up and back to kicking ass so, so soon.

In the bedroom, he found a haphazardly-made full bed with a patterned quilt strewn over the white top-sheet. The bedside table had a lamp, an alarm clock, _War and Peace_, and her cell phone sitting on top of it; a window on the wall parallel to the door flaunted a grand view of the little lake. In the corner to the left of the window, an oak desk sat, and among many manila folders of what he assumed to be medical files, he found the printed chapters. Easily, he picked the copy up, but as he did so, he noticed three pictures taped up above the desk, three little portraits that had likely been hung there many years beforehand. The first was a picture of a very young Kate, maybe six or seven years old, playing in the lake with a chocolate-colored Labrador. Had she ever had a dog? He made note to ask. The second picture showed Kate in her early teens, waders on her legs as she and her father held up a giant caught trout with pride. Third, a picture showed a much older Kate and her mother dipping their toes into the lake as they sat on the rock. In this third picture, the image had been taken from behind, but as both Kate and her mother grinned in conversation, any viewer could easily see their faces.

He'd only seen her smile like that once, back when he'd brought up beginning a scholarship in her mother's name. This smile, a tiny one filled with adoration and trust, was one that seemed to come when she felt comfortable, at home; he couldn't take his eyes off of the picture.

"Castle?" she called from the other room, alerting his senses.

"Sorry," he said as he quickly picked up the pages and headed back to the living room.

When she looked up at him from the couch, she asked, "Snooping? Really?"

"Nothing of the sort," he said. "You neglected to tell me where your room was. Technically, it's not my fault."

She didn't grin at his shenanigans, only waited for him to hand her the chapters. Once the chapters were situated against her legs, he tried to speak once more, managed the worst of words.

"You don't have to be embarrassed around me."

She gave a look of confusion. He tried to find better words as he crouched down alongside her so that he could meet her eyes.

"I'm not judging you, not holding things against you, not mocking you in any way," he said honestly. "I could never do that to you, Kate. Never."

After a moment, she looked into his eyes, asked, "How?"

_Because I love you._

The idea came to him so easily; what scared him was how the phrase no longer surprised him.

"Because I admire you, Kate," he said. "I admire you, and I admire that my daughter looks up to you, and I admire your strength in more ways than I could say. Even if you're nervous about having me here, you don't need to worry. Of course, it's not that simple, but I admire you a lot, Kate, so you don't need to feel guilty about asking me for help or about having me here."

Though his mind chanted a continuous _I love you I love you I love you_, his speech would have to do. And he was right; this wasn't simple. However, he had tried, and she seemed to soften, so at least he'd given her some reassurance.

"I'm fairly boring during the day," she said, shifting the conversation. "If you want to drive to the big lake and find a library to work in, go ahead. I can call you if I need anything."

"So long as there are pens and paper, I can work from here," he said.

"Dad has an ancient modem in his bedroom. A laptop should be next to it. If you would truly prefer a pen and paper, those are in his desk drawers."

Nodding, he went to stand up, but before he could, he brought his hand over one of hers resting on her stomach. As he brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, he looked to her, smiled.

"What?" she asked, her brow furrowing with concern.

"Nothing," he said. "I just missed you."

At that, she gave a blushing little smile, an almost embarrassed look, and said, "I missed you too, Castle."

He retracted his hand, left her to the Nikki chapters while he headed toward the bedroom. After he'd closed the door behind himself, he looked around the room. The quaint queen bed had a green handmade quilt over it; dark wood dressers sat in the sparsely furnished room, and next to another window that looked out over the lake, a larger, more studious desk sat. All of the furniture seemed homemade, and as Rick sat down at the desk, he wondered if Kate and her mother had sewn some of the matching quilts and cushions. In fact, the modem _was_ ancient, and as Rick opened the laptop left on the desk, he wondered if the strange contraption still worked. Nonetheless, he managed to boot up both the laptop and the modem, and eventually, he was able to check his email once more.

Of course, Gina wanted to know why he wasn't writing, but hadn't it been obvious? Because having one book-related person up his ass wasn't enough, Paula had emailed him asking about book tour dates, dates that he was still unsure about. There were promotional shoots to do, talk shows to go on, parties to attend, and somehow, the man-child in him couldn't feel excited for any of those things. Instead of a party rich with champagne and blondes, he longed for a glass of wine and one specific brunette who was currently on the couch in the living room. Oh, what would it feel like to come home after work to Kate? Well, technically, he worked from home, but what would it be like to have her walk in the door of his loft as she tiredly toed off her shoes? How would it feel to have Kate sit down next to him on the couch and nuzzle up to his cheek? How wonderful would it be to take a hot shower with her, one that wasn't filled with sexual endeavors but instead with a warm, comforting kiss every few minutes? How would it feel to listen to her laugh as the two of them prepared for bed? How would it feel when the scent of her clung to his sheets?

_When_. He had to scold himself for that choice of words. However, they had a certain inevitability toward being together; despite the inevitability, he still didn't understand how they would - _could_ - begin this, whatever this was. What he could begin was his writing, so after drafting brief emails intended to make Gina and Paula back off until he went back to the city, he opened a blank document, and without thinking, he wrote.

What he was writing, it had no rhyme or reason, no titles for the characters, but now, he was writing, and he was writing a murder scene, and he wasn't picturing Kate as the victim. Now, he was describing the scene in detail, was typing away as he added a bit more description here, a little Castle flair there. Outside, a storm broke, thunder clapping as he typed, rain flitting the lake while he finished his sentence. When he rounded off the murder scene, he first called in Detective Heat, and then, he refused to stop, not even when he wanted to add extra, not even when he misspelled a word.

And the blockage was gone.

(line break)

Three pages. He'd written three pages by the time he managed to stop. The storm carried on outside. Under normal circumstances, three pages would've been a warmup, but damn it, he'd written three pages! After two weeks of the purest blockage, he'd finally written! He emailed the document to himself, decided that three pages was enough for now; because half an hour had passed, he knew that he aught to check on Kate, so he turned off the modem, shut down the laptop, and headed back out to the living room.

"Kate?" he called softly, his voice a little too giddy from his accomplishment.

He figured that she couldn't have moved from the couch, so of course, she would be there, but nonetheless, his nerves spiked as he walked to the front of the couch in search of her. She was still there, but now, the Nikki chapters were resting on her extended but relaxed legs, and her head was tilted toward the coffee-table, her eyes closed. Suddenly silent, he realized that she'd fallen asleep while reading, and as he looked down at her, smiled at how she occasionally snored just a little - he figured that she would _never_ confess to doing that - he softly took the Nikki chapters from her lap and rested them on the floor beside her. Then, he took a throw blanket from the top of the couch and spread it over her; he was gentle as he gingerly brought the blanket around her arms, over her shoulders. Before he leaned away from her, it crossed his mind, how he could so easily lean down and kiss her cheek without her ever needing to know. Of course, he would _want_ her to know, but she didn't _need_ to know. He dared himself to, so he leaned down, but instead of bringing his lips to her cheek, he brought his thumb over her cheek, a gentle caress that she likely barely felt. However, the tiny caress made his insides feel warm, and from just that, he retreated to the kitchen, reminded himself to wash her bowl from this morning.

She was beautiful, and he'd written three pages, and the rain gave a contented song to his day, and he loved her, and sometimes, he thought, the world just seems so _right_.


	3. Chapter 2, Part II

_A/N: There is one scene in this chapter that took me nearly a month to write. NEARLY A MONTH. Every time I tried to write it, the scene felt artificial, and I'm still not sure that I enjoy it, but it's there nonetheless. Additionally, my medical knowledge is limited to Grey's Anatomy and google, so pardon my frequent and embarrassing inaccuracies, but f you came to fan fiction dot net in search of refined medical accuracy in every piece, then I strongly suggest looking into other websites._

* * *

The rain never ceased to fall. Unsurprisingly, she slept throughout the day, only fully waking at two-thirty for a late lunch before sleeping through the sunset. Each time she'd woken up, he'd walked her to the bathroom next to her bedroom, but other than those walks, they hardly had contact. While she slept, he perused the cabin's lively library; currently, he was beginning _Effi Briest_ while he sat in an armchair alongside her couch. In the city, he loved to be connected, adored his Twitter following and his unbounded internet, but somehow, only having a few sparse bars of cell coverage and needing to wait ten minutes for the router to boot up led him back to his truer roots. Though he usually didn't have enough time to dabble in libraries, what with Beckett and with his writing and with his family and with everything else he had going on, he was charmed with how this little cabin on a lake reminded him that he occasionally needed to take time for himself. Life was slower here, more meaningful; this was the kind of place where cooking a meal was an adventure, not an inconvenience. This place allowed him to slow down when he needed to, and though he hadn't thought he would, he'd needed to disconnect. Of course, he'd needed to see Kate more than he'd needed to disconnect, but he would take any perk he could find.

Plus, the lack of online distractions meant that he could glance out over Kate at the end of each of his chapters. As she lay there sleeping, she pressed her left cheek down against the pillow he'd slipped beneath her head hours beforehand; one of her hands balled up the section of blanket over her stomach while her other arm rested alongside her body. Sometimes - and he almost scolded himself for this - he would watch the rise and fall of her chest, the ebb and flow of her breaths, simply because he could. In fact, watching her breathe almost relaxed him; though he'd known it for a long time now, he still took great comfort in knowing that she was alive.

Around eight in the evening, she woke once more; he noticed that she was awake likely before she did.

"Kate?" he asked softly as she shifted her head, dared not shift any other part of her body.

Once she was alert enough, she gave a still-sleepy, "Hey, Castle."

Had he been standing, he would've fallen over, for hearing her say his name that way made his knees feel weak.

"I hate to say it," he said as he marked his page in his book, "but you need dinner, and you need to shower, and-"

"Got it, Castle. I'm helpless, but I'm not that helpless."

He nodded quickly, swallowed hard.

"You missed the sunset," he gave, standing up to go nearer to her. "It wasn't a very impressive one. I took a picture on my phone in case you wanted to see."

He crouched down alongside her so that their eyes could meet with ease. As she looked down, she smiled, said, "It's always the little details with you, isn't it."

"In case my solving many of your cases hasn't proven it yet," Castle said, his snarky know-it-all tone almost making her laugh, "the little details _are_ the big details, Beckett."

Rolling her eyes, she nonetheless held a smile as she glanced up to him.

"I'm boring nowadays, but honestly, Castle, I'm not usually _this_ boring," she admitted while he sat down beside her.

"You're tired. You needed to sleep," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Plus, I got some writing done."

"Good," she said, giving little nods.

He leaned against the couch, checked his watch. Though it was getting late, he didn't want to bathe her, feed her, and send her to bed; no, she'd been asleep almost all day, so she hardly needed more sleep. Instead, he tried to think of anything else that he could do to help her, but to his dismay, he came up empty. As she was, she hardly seemed as though she wanted to do something; maybe getting her to bed would be in both of their best interests.

Getting her to bed. Ooh.

"Would you mind showering now?" he asked. "The storm broke earlier, and I'd rather not run the risk of electrocution, so now would be a good time."

"Electrocution from a shower? Castle, we're right next to a lake."

"Oh. Right."

"Now's fine," she gave, nodding twice. "If you can walk me to the bathroom, then I can do the rest."

"The rest?"

He could recall a specific paragraph that Jim had written in _the manual_.

_She'll definitely fight you on the showering part. Do not, under any circumstances, let her shower alone. I don't care how persuasive she is. Even if she insists that she can do it alone, it's far too much of a health risk. She's not going to like it, but it's for the best._

Maybe I should've just let her sleep, Rick thought as she slowly sat up, as she turned to stand. When she stood, he stood as well; his arm easily went behind her back, his hand to her hip. Somehow, he'd come to enjoy walking with her like this, and though the way she breathed heavily made him wince, he enjoyed the closeness she gave. Whenever he walked with her, she leaned into him, and, goodness, he was juvenile for feeling this way, but simply holding her there sent sparks throughout his body. However, those sparks left as soon as she leaned against the bathroom counter, let go of his hip.

"In the medicine cabinet, there's plastic wrapping, gauze, and tape," Kate instructed as she caught her breath.

The bathroom was large enough to not feel cramped when he reached behind where she stood and took out opaque white plastic wrapping and medical tape. Setting the materials next to the sink, he turned to her, searched for further instructions.

"My dad used the prescription wash on my wounds this morning, so all you have to do is use a little bit of soap to clean these," she said. "Before I can be under running water, I need you to clean the wounds, dry them with the gauze, redress them, and cover them with the taped-down wrapping. The soap is in a labeled box next to the sink."

Surely enough, a plastic container filled with light yellow liquid and labeled with _Kate_ sat there; next to it was a ramekin.

"Put a little warm water into the dish next to the soap," she said. "Then, add a splash of soap. Set that aside."

Nodding, he did as he was told; once the soap was set aside, he turned back to her. She leaned back onto the bathroom counter so that her feet just barely dangled above the floor.

"Underneath the sink, there are plastic bags and rubber gloves," she said. "Grab a set of gloves and a bag."

As he reached down to grab more supplies, he joked, "My, Beckett, you even boss me around outside of the precinct."

"Castle, this is important."

"Sorry."

He set the plastic bag down on the counter and placed the gloves alongside them.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Wash your hands," she said. "_Thoroughly._"

Doing as she said, he turned on the warm water, sang the _Happy Birthday_ song in his head for good measure while he soaped his hands.

"Put the gloves on," she said.

"But I just washed my hands."

"It's procedure, Castle," she insisted, annoyed. "Put the gloves on, remove the old dressings, take the gloves off, and clean the wounds. Doctor's orders, not mine."

"Okay, okay," he said as he pulled each of the rubber gloves on, making spirit fingers as a joke; luckily, she smiled just a little. "How do I take off the dressings?"

"Remove them slowly, and you'll be fine," she said, nodding twice.

She began to lift her shirt with ease, but then, she halted, slowed down as she used her right hand to lift up the left side of her shirt. Now, he could see a long plane of skin taped up and covered in gauze. From beneath the center of her left breast to about the same spot on her back, she had white medical wrap all the way down her side, from her upper ribcage to her hip. How strange it was, to think that such a mark had likely been made in seconds, yet she would carry it around with her forever. Seconds could change so much; as she looked toward him, he confirmed that statement. Her eyes were intimate, scared; she didn't want him to see this, but, damn it, she didn't have another choice. Based on how she clumsily was lifting her shirt, he doubted that she could do this on her own. However, she would've mustered the strength right then and there if she could've; for now, her focus was down, and she looked uncomfortable, ashamed.

"Kate?"

He was taller than she was as he stood in front of her; while she sat on the counter, he towered above her, making her look and feel small. When she glanced up to meet his gaze, his heart clenched; she looked unsettled in her submissive role, uncomfortable in her lack of control. Though he knew that he couldn't, he wanted to reach his hand out, stroke her cheek, promise that no scar could ever make her any less extraordinary; he wanted to kiss her once, chastely and slowly, and he wanted to whisper to her that he loved her, every part of her, wounds and all. After all, it was true. He loved her, but he couldn't do anything about it, not now, not when so much tension hung between them. Instead, he tried to ask her with his glance what he could do to make her more comfortable; from how she averted her gaze to her right, he figured that she'd understood.

"I don't like looking at them."

Midway through her statement, her voice cracked even though she'd tried desperately to sound strong. He wanted to say or do something in order to help her, but there was nothing that he could say or do; the most he could do for her was finish this as quickly and as adeptly as was possible, and from there, he could try once more to make this as little an inconvenience for her as possible.

"Do you mind if I start taking these off?" he asked softly, slowly.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head as he gaze remained to her right. When he first reached down to start peeling off her bandages, he gingerly touched her stomach, and he swore she shivered just at his touch, a shiver that he wasn't sure should excite him or terrify him. Trying not to think about it, he carefully peeled the medical tape from her skin, placed the used tape into the plastic bag. Once the tape was taken off of the gauze, he started to move toward the gauze, sweaty to the touch but still mostly clean; he peeled the gauze gently, wasn't sure if she'd cowered in pain or in fear.

He'd been so occupied with how uncomfortable she was that he hadn't prepared himself for the wound he was revealing. As he looked down at her surgical incision, he stilled, his body frozen. The long, red line of her side was stitched up with bright blue sutures, a strange color that made the rest of her skin look the shade of a bruise. As blood dried along the stitches, he watched the ebb and flow of her breaths, the rising and falling of the stitches. He couldn't imagine how greatly those kept her from moving; simply looking at the stitches made him unable to move, so he couldn't fathom how preventative having the incision would be. Trying not to stare, he pulled off the last of the gauze and placed it in the bag, but as he returned to look at her, he couldn't keep his eyes off of this wound.

Surely, the incision would scar, and she would be so _Kate_ and refuse to wear a swimsuit for seasons to come, and she would hate the scars, fear them, and she wouldn't be the same. She wouldn't. Though he could never deny that, part of him wished that she _could_ fully recover, that she wouldn't even regard this as a major event in her life. However, his wishing hardly made it so, and now, he wished he could kiss her, wished that he could tell her how beautiful she was, scars and wounds and baggage and all. She was beautiful. She _still_ was beautiful. In fact, she would always be beautiful, now and forever, and he was in too deep, and when people were in too deep with Kate Beckett, she ran, but now, she couldn't run, yet he still refused to approach her. The morality of it all, he couldn't quite work out, but for now, they were friends and just that; friends could clean the wounds of friends, and even if that wasn't conventional, he forced himself to think that it was, for trying to be more with her now was out of the question.

On an exhale, she said, "Take off the gloves and wash your hands again."

Not daring argue anymore, he nodded slowly, took off the gloves, and washed his hands once more. As he dried his hands, he looked to her once more, saw her now-open eyes filled with fear that hurt him. Looking to her, he couldn't meet her eyes, so instead, he took her right hand against his, her balled-up shirt still clutched in her fingers.

Finally, she met his gaze, her eyes softening, comforted.

"You know, you're going to have to wash your hands again," she said, looking him in the eye.

Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Some things are worth dry knuckles."

And a smile - goodness, a smile - came to her lips, a shy one that didn't show teeth. Looking down, she smiled to herself as he squeezed her hand once before letting go. He washed his hands again; when his hands were dry again, he looked to her for another instruction. Though she no longer was smiling, she still seemed more comfortable, more okay.

"Soak a piece of gauze in the soapy water," she said. "Dab gently. Try to get as much drainage and dried blood off as possible."

He nodded slowly while he prepared the gauze. When he first brought the soapy piece to her skin, he was too gentle, so as he removed the gauze, no blood or drainage was even picked up. Gauging his pressure, he gave a bit of a push, and now, he was just right, picking up as much of the fluid as possible. When he moved up higher on her wounds, he found that the white gauze was tinting red from the blood; his heart sank as the wound seemed cleaner. Reaching the top, he slowed, looked for his next direction.

"Put the dirty gauze into the plastic bag. Wash your hands again," she instructed. "Then, take out new dressings and secure them down with tape. Cover the dressings with plastic, and tape down the plastic about half an inch away from each edge."

He nodded as he continued to work, his hands almost graceful as he carefully placed new gauze over her wounds. When he taped down the plastic pieces, he made sure that no gaps had come; her wounds would stay dry no matter what, or so he wished. However, he wished even more that she were the one to clean her next wound, the one over her heart, for he was a coward who could hardly stare down that mark. He'd imagined it, her gunshot wound, many times, most commonly in nightmares. As he watched her die in the dream, she would clutch at it, this mark that gained in size and stature while she writhed. But she's alive, he reminded himself as he tapped her uninjured skin twice, assured that everything was in place. She was alive, so this mark, whatever it happened to look like, was not stronger than she was.

And who was he to be this coward? He hadn't been shot, hadn't had to live through the death of her training officer followed by the death of her captain followed by her own attempted assassination. Was it an assassination? When he threw words of that kind around, he found it much harder to watch as she shyly dropped the side of her shirt down. Then, she pinched a piece of the garment around her navel, lifted the shirt up ever-so-gently in order to uncomfortably expose the expanse of her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. In between her breasts, another pad of gauze lay, and as he looked to her, he felt his gaze grow apologetic, remorseful. As she met his eyes, he needed to look away.

"It's okay," she offered quietly, and, damn it, she was comforting him through this while she stood there, frightened and bare, in front of him. "The idea of it is scarier than the mark itself."

He wanted to faint. No, he wanted to vomit, and then he wanted to faint, and then he wanted to come into consciousness in a world where this woman didn't need to learn that her scars weren't as terrifying as she'd made them out to be. Though he'd always admired it, her strength now terrified him, for she couldn't break, simply couldn't. Instead, she told herself that the scars were more terrifying in theory, and now, she needed to comfort her caretaker, her partner.

Partners. They were equals in this, weren't they? That being said, he needed to be her strong equal, her leaning support. He could only let her lean on him if he leaned as well.

With ease, he remembered the steps, from the hand-washing to the new gloves to the gentle but quick removal; however, he paused before he dared look at the mark, forced his eyes upon it while she averted her gaze. Though his jaw went slack and his face pale at the sight of it, she'd been correct. The mark was tiny, almost perfectly round as it healed, a slight puckering already forming around the bullet's entry. How strange it was, that her surgical scar had been so much more terrifying; this mark was minuscule in comparison, yet this mark represented so much more. Her shooting had lasted a moment, a tiny speck in time, yet its aftermath would never leave her.

It was always the aftermath, wasn't it? Events were made famous for their reactions; if someone wasn't surprised, baffled, or insulted, then everyone likely forgot the moment. Unless it evokes a reaction, an action loses its meaning. When her shooter had been hired, under the assumption that he had been hired, the shooter had looked for a death that caused multiple reactions. The first reaction would be that touching Johanna Beckett's murder case would be a death sentence; the second would be that martyrdom was in the eyes of the audience; the third would be that everyone will eventually become a name and a number, a folded flag at a funeral, a tombstone in a grassy knoll. And those reactions would have been the reason why Kate Beckett's death would have been remembered yet so easily forgotten; her death would make newspaper subscribers hug their children just a little bit tighter that night, yet the next day, lives would go on with ease as _Kate Beckett_ became a butchered version of an actress's name. Shooting her and belittling her, those were the actions that the shooter had done in order to evoke a reaction from the audience at hand, and now, Ryan and Esposito were running in circles as they searched for evidence while Kate remained motionless for hours on end. Though the shooter had not succeeded in killing her, he - or she - had succeeded in evoking the desired reactions. The idea made Rick feel hollow.

_I'm in love with __you_ was a breathless whisper on his lips as he silently went to clean her wound. With one touch of the soapy gauze, he removed dried blood, patted off any dead skin cells. Then, he strongly covered the wound with fresh gauze, washing his hands as he went, and when he cut out plastic wrapping and taped it over her wound, he was defiant, for he would never let the shooter win, absolutely never. He would not come up empty on this, for he simply couldn't. He just couldn't.

"And now?" he managed to ask as she dipped her shirt back down over her stomach.

"I'll need you to wash my hair, but I can do everything else," she said, nodding twice. "When you hear the water shut off, come knocking."

"And you'll be nude all the while?" he tried to make as a joke, but somehow, his voice had darkened. Luckily, a small smile came to her lips anyway.

"In your dreams," she said.

He perked his lips up, for she was alive, and as he left, he swore to it that he would never let her shooter win. No matter what, Kate Beckett's fight for truth would carry on. As he closed the bathroom door behind himself and went to sit on the couch, he heard the water turn on, so his lips perked up once more. She was definitely naked, and though he usually would've conjured images, he instead thought of a clothed, recovered Beckett back in the precinct, her swagger undeniable, her gaze unforgiving. No matter what, no one would stop her, and he knew that for sure. He wouldn't let the truth go untold for her; he swore that he couldn't.

Suddenly, certain thoughts fell into place.

* * *

She was alarmingly quick in the shower, quicker than he'd expected by far. After only five or six minutes, the water shut off, so he stood up, went to hover by the bathroom door until she gave the next command. When she called him in, he gingerly turned the doorknob, entered with respect.

Though he'd expected to see her in a towel, he hadn't fully realized that seeing her in a towel would mean seeing her as bare as he'd ever seen her. With the exception of her apartment's explosion, he'd never seen her so uncovered, and now, he almost gawked, his eyes tracing the lines from her wrists to her elbows to her muscular shoulders - her skills with guns and with her fists needed to come from somewhere - while her pale but warmly pink skin contrasted the white towel she clutched to her body. White gauze peeked out over the top of her towel; her calves seemed bowed; her face was impossibly pure, a virginal look in which she seemed harmless yet poised, taken yet fierce. As her wet hair clung together and cascaded down her back, she looked to him, her mouth slightly open, her green eyes...

Confident. He hadn't expected her eyes to look so confident. However, confident was a poor choice of words; ready would be a better choice though accepting seemed to fit more. Though he'd feared looking at her near-naked body for her sake, she had accepted the matter, and now, she seemed hopeful and brave, emotions he hadn't expected to see.

"Just shampoo," she broke the silence. "Wet, lather, rinse, towel-dry, and brush."

Her instructions were frank, to-the-point. She didn't want this to be an event, a gesture that he would remember; instead, she wanted this to be a textbook procedure for him. Somehow, he found her frankness disheartening, but as she led him to the walk-in shower, he tried not to be discouraged, for she was letting him in for now. Whenever she showed her soul to him, he needed to see her whole self before she put her walls back up.

Luckily, the shower hadn't a tub, and the two connected sliding doors showed the shower's size; they could fit in it together with chaste ease. Near the head lay a shower-bench, an apparently recent purchase based on how the treated wood hardly matched the rest of the bathroom. As she sat down there, he looked to the shower-head, another recent purchase. This shower-head was an attachment that mismatched the silver nozzles and was plastic and removable. Easy enough, he decided as he stepped into the shower along with her, the tiles still wet. Taking the shower-head and pointing the nozzle away from her, he turned the water on, keeping it warm but not too hot, and once the temperature was to his liking, he began to run water through her hair. At first, she stayed still, but once he began to brush his hands through her hair, she stretched into his palms, her neck swan-like. Her eyes were closed until he turned the water off and reached for the shampoo bottle alongside them.

He was nervous at first as he massaged the cherry-scented shampoo - goodness, he _knew_ that scent had come from somewhere - against her temple; though she at first seemed skittish, she relaxed against his hands, and while he massaged her scalp, she complied, enjoyed it even. Sudsing her curls, he tried to mimic his salon stylist's washing methods to no avail; he was no Vidal Sassoon, but his skills hardly mattered when he could feel her decompressing against his hands. When he turned the water back on, he wanted to break the silence, but somehow, the quiet between them was comfortable, welcome. Nonetheless, he'd never been any good at quiet.

"Is the temperature okay?" he asked as he brought the shower-head to her hair and began to rinse.

"It's fine," she gave as she elongated her neck once more.

"Are you sure?"

"Castle."

"Never mind."

He cupped his free hand against her forehead in order to keep the suds from slipping into her eyes while she sat as still as she could; combing his fingers through her hair once more, he hoped that this wasn't too much for her, the touching and the...the intimacy of it. Sure, he'd showered with plenty of girlfriends, but he'd never showered with a girlfriend - or, rather, with a partner - in this fashion. This was intimate, a soft and uncharted event. When he turned the water off once more, he stepped out of the shower in search of a brush and another towel.

Next to the sink, her brush sat, and another towel was hanging on a hook, so he took the two pieces and returned to where she sat. Gently, he wrapped the towel around her hair, squeezed gingerly to dry off excess water. Then, he removed the towel, hung it over the shower's sliding doors as he crouched down to brush her hair. With the first stroke of the brush, he could already sense discomfort in the room.

"The ends have a lot of snarls," she admitted quickly as he reached the tips of her hair, which, indeed, were snarled. "And the curls puff out a little bit when I don't blow-dry."

"That must be cute."

"It's obnoxious."

"What I've learned, Beckett," he said as he brushed through her hair once more, "is that most of the things I find cute are the things that you find annoying."

"Really?"

The sarcasm in her voice was more than evident.

"If I have a mane by the end of this, don't laugh at me," she said.

"You know, I could always braid it."

At that, she paused, and he paused as well, for his offer had slipped from his lips with ease, yet he wasn't sure how well he would cope if he were to continue intimately touching Kate Beckett while she sat there covered in only a towel. Oh, goodness, he _really_ shouldn't have thought of what was beneath that towel...

"Could you?" she asked.

"Of course."

No, he couldn't, but now, he needed to, so he brushed her hair back all of the way, brushed up a section from her crown, and sectioned it into three. Taking an elastic from the brush's handle, he looped the tie onto his wrist and began to French-braid her hair the way he'd braided his daughter's for most all of the third grade. Easily, he pulled her hair into a tight yet comfortable braid, her long and curly tresses gingerly wound in his hands. When he reached the nape of her neck, he took the three sections and continued braiding, his hands ever-so-close to her bare shoulders. He dared not touch, however, for touching her there would be addictive, and he couldn't bear to crave such a rare feeling. When he tied off the ends of her hair, he eased up to stand - his knees were beginning to show their age - while she remained seated.

"Thank you," she gave quietly as she stood up herself, the braid showing how bare her visage was when she turned to look at him.

He coaxed her over as they began to walk out of the bathroom together, one of her hands behind his back while the other clutched at her towel.

"Do you need any help getting dressed?" Castle asked, his voice jokingly eager.

When they reached the bedroom, she rolled her eyes, said, "In your dreams."

She left his grasp and stepped softly toward the bedroom, where she entered and closed the door behind herself. Though he hovered by the door momentarily, he knew that this was the extent of his intimacy with her for now; she'd bared her soul - among other things - and he'd held her dear while her walls had been down, so he'd done what he could have done. Now, he just needed her to open up like this more often.

But he needed to make her dinner. Yes, that was something he could do quickly and easily. Until then, he would occupy his mind on something other than the fact that she was naked behind those walls.

* * *

Bringing her to bed after dinner was easy enough; as he helped her lie down, she adjusted easily, her back resting against the mattress. However, she couldn't reach the quilt on her own, so before she could retaliate to his actions, he pulled the blanket up over her, tucked her in. The action, though it was romantic in theory, felt more comforting to both of them than it felt romantic. As he tucked the quilt past her shoulders and as he smoothed the blanket down her side, they both were warm, comfortable. Her hair was still in the damp braid; he still wanted to kiss her; not much seemed to have changed from before, yet change hung in the air like a familiar friend.

He knew when to make himself scarce, so once she'd relaxed down against the mattress, he reached forward to one of her shoulders, squeezed, and began to head out of the room. When he opened the door, he looked back at her, her visage facing away from him. It was strange, how exciting it was to see that braid in her hair, to remember putting her hair that way. Though his touch had only been intended to relax her, he'd nonetheless felt closer to her as he'd wrapped her hair through his hands. A small smile on his lips, he went to turn off the light.

After he flicked the switch off, he heard a soft, "Castle?"

He left the light off as he returned to her bedside, crouched there so that he could meet her shadowed glance. Though she'd been so scared, so small, beforehand, she now held a different emotion in her eyes, an openness, a feeling of intimacy. Without words, she'd left herself bare to him, and now, he was breathless.

"Would you mind..." she trailed off, looking down while she tried to find words. "Would you mind sitting with me for a little while?"

Almost instinctively, he said, "No, not at all."

She pulled her lips in, not holding a smile but not holding a neutral look either, and with her right arm, she reached out to the pull cord for the lamp on her bedside table. As the lamp lit up the room, she met his gaze once again. He walked over and pulled the oak desk chair over to her side; though she left her right hand on the edge of the mattress, he didn't take it in his for fear of doing too much too quickly. They'd touched too often, and even though one last squeeze of the hand couldn't do too much damage, this was her bed, and as a guest in - beside - her bed, he needed to look to her for boundaries. For now, they sat apart even though their bodies were so close.

"This room is lonely," she said, her voice quiet in the softly-illuminated room. "It started out feeling small, but now, it's giant."

He nodded slowly, his eyes still on her while she looked down.

"I've learned so much about what the radio plays at three in the morning," she said, looking to him with a knowing smile. "You've done that before, haven't you, Castle?"

He shrugged.

"I'm more of a CD man myself."

She half-smiled.

"I enjoy being alone," she added, her smile fading into a more contented look, her mouth neutral. "It's loneliness that terrifies me."

He nodded slowly. Though he too enjoyed solitude, he didn't like isolation, and based on how long and far he'd driven to get to this cabin, she'd likely been forced into solitude for much longer than she would ever want. Certain times during the day, he had felt like a nuisance, but times like these, when she silently admitted that seeing him had made her feel better, made him feel so elated that he could barely keep the grin from his lips.

"Haven't had many visitors?" he asked, continuing the conversation.

"Unless you count the neighbors, none," she said.

"Has Josh come around?"

And at that, she shifted, seemed uncomfortable but not tense.

"We broke up."

He paused.

_Oh._

He nodded only once, but the connections going in his brain reminded him of fireworks.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged her cheeks.

"I'm not," she gave. "I wouldn't have seen any visitors even if some had come to be honest. I would've been too embarrassed."

Though he wanted to tell her that no wound could make her seem less extraordinary, he saved his speeches for later dates, simply nodded instead. Glancing over to her bedside table, he saw her whopping copy of _War and Peace_ resting there, its dog-eared and worn-down pages facing her. How strange it was, that she looked to television comedies and _Say Yes to the Dress_ for video entertainment while she went for great novels - though Tolstoy himself had refused to call _War and Peace_ a novel, but that was a lecture-class revival for a later date - to read.

"What?" she asked after he was silent for some time.

Snapping back to the conversation, he said, "Nothing. Just admiring the book on your nightstand."

"One day, my pain was so bad that my father had to lift that book from the coffee-table to my lap," she said, looking at him and grinning both in hilarity and in an odd sense of pride. "He kept insisting that I read beach-literature instead."

"I'd be surprised if it's your first time reading _War and Peace._"

Insistently, she shook her head, said, "Fourth. The first time was in my first semester at college, the second while I studied abroad, the third in my late twenties."

"A favorite, I take it?"

"Favorite? Castle, it's _profound_," she gave, almost appalled at how he'd written the book off as simply one of her _favorites._ "This novel encompasses all aspects of the human experience. An epic, that's precisely what it is, every scene told with the utmost experiential detail - Tolstoy couldn't possibly have experienced all of these scenes, yet he writes them with painstaking honesty - and with emotion that causes the reader to fully feel. If you've ever felt a certain way, then Tolstoy has a scene describing that emotion. And that's not even half the genius of it, Castle. There are so many well-developed characters, each with their own mannerisms and flaws and Achilles' heels. Natasha Rostov, Pierre, even Dolokhov and especially Kutuzov and maybe Petya. Though the characters seem hardly lifelike, they're impeccably _real._ Rereading their stories is like seeing old friends once more; they feel fictitious yet alive, a combination that's rare to find elsewhere. I swear, you could read aloud any paragraph from that book and then conclude something phenomenal about the human experience. It's not a favorite, Castle; it's a classic, in every sense of the word."

Sometime during her speech, his lips had involuntarily begun to shift; first, they started at a straight-mouthed look that then shifted to a look of awe. The awe was soft, however, for he was entranced in the way she spoke, and, hell, she could've been discussing anything, and he still would've listened, for hearing her passion with every word she spoke made him remember her for who she was. Though she seemed so small all alone in the full bed, she filled the room with how _Kate_ she was, her passion relentless and her competence unbounded. And the look in her eyes, God, the look she gave as she spoke, it made meeting her eyes once more so much harder, for he now _needed_ to engulf her in a kiss, to maybe show her just how passionately he could love her. However, he couldn't kiss her, so instead, he watched as her expression went from passionate to flummoxed.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him, her tone quieter than before.

"Nothing," he lied.

"Castle," she asked, shifting where she lay. "What are you thinking about?"

He couldn't lie, could he? Not when she could see through him in this way.

"You."

He couldn't read the expression on her face as she glanced down and nodded twice.

"I sometimes forget how intelligent you are," he admitted. "You're...a lot of things, Kate. I've grown accustomed to knowing you mostly as a cop, so hearing you talk about literature is...different."

She looked up at him again.

"It's a good form of different," he continued. "Like learning that your favorite pasta sauce tastes heavenly on dipped bread."

"Don't talk about pasta, not when I've been eating either undercooked tofu or liquidized food for the past two weeks."

"I was trying to be poetic."

"Castle."

"Right. No more mentioning pasta. Scout's honor."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He smiled. She smiled as well.

"Well, it's getting late," Castle said, trying not to over-stay his welcome. Plus, it was edging toward ten pm, and after how tired she'd been all day, he figured that a late bedtime couldn't do her any good. "I should head to bed."

She nodded softly, gave, "Okay."

Standing up, he leaned down, squeezed her shoulder once more before heading toward the doorway. She pulled the cord on the lamp; as he stood in the doorway, he could see her silhouette in the darkness, her bright eyes peeking up.

"Night, Kate," he said as he went to leave.

"No _until tomorrow?_" she asked, an almost joking look crossing her features.

A slight smile came to his lips, not out of happiness but instead out of the bittersweet feeling of that moment; the tables had turned.

"Not tonight," he gave.

Nodding stoically, she said, "Goodnight, Castle."

"Goodnight, Beckett."

And with that, he closed the door behind himself, headed toward his bedroom, and if anyone were to ask, he would deny it, but he went to bed with the slightest smile across his lips.

* * *

The every-three-hours alarms slowly became his enemy.

At the first one, he'd easily gotten up, had felt invigorated as he'd gone to check on her. Waking up had been an enticing act, so he defiantly rose toward her. Unsurprisingly, she was fast asleep as he cautiously entered her room; nestled beneath the quilt, she lay there, her face close to her left shoulder, her hands balling up the blankets. Though he tried not to stare, he couldn't help it; she was beautiful, from the way she furrowed her brow just a little bit to the way her somewhat-disheveled braid sprawled out along her pillow to the slow but steady rise and fall of her chest. Aside from that day, had he ever seen her sleep? He tried to recall a certain moment, but he had trouble remembering. After all, it was one in the morning.

Then, he recalled one time when they'd both been at the precinct late into the evening, maybe around nine pm. Evidently, the day had been taxing for her, and though he'd cut her off from caffeine in hope of a good night's rest, she'd nonetheless continually reached for her mug. When he'd returned from a trip to the bathroom, he'd come back to see her leaning against her desk, and upon approaching her further, he'd noticed that she'd dozed off, her head in her arms as she rested against her desk. Hesitantly, he'd reached out to her, nudged her shoulder, and softly whispered _Kate_ in hope that she would open her eyes just enough to make it through a cab ride back to her apartment. As one would expect, she groaned and insisted that she was fine; even more expectedly, he proceeded to force her out of the precinct.

So, yes, he had seen her sleeping once beforehand. However, he'd never seen her sleep like this, so softly and intimately. Though he knew he couldn't, he wished he could climb in with her and stay to the far left of the bed. As he closed her door and went to return to his room, he knew that his bed would now feel just a bit colder on the right side.

Beyond the sliding glass doors, the rain had calmed, going from frequent downpours to occasional drizzles. The sound of drops hitting the lake was oddly calming, so for a moment, he stood next to the glass doors, looked out across the lake. The moon was just bigger than half; the stars flitted the navy sky like hats at church; the lines of evergreens were silhouetted against the vastness of the universe. In New York, he felt small because of the buildings, because of the achievements of the human race; he felt tiny because humans had learned to build skyscrapers, and quite frankly, having a species evolve to such a point was terrifying. What if dogs could suddenly build buildings and work in congress? he mused. Then he laughed, for he had pictured dogs in congress, and it was one in the morning, so picturing dogs in congress was inherently funnier than it would have been the day beforehand at noon. Once again, he looked to the sky, and, damn it, he felt tiny again, but this reason was unlike his reasons in the city. Though he usually felt small because of the accomplishments of humans, he now felt small because of the vastness of this world, the greatness of what may be infinite.

Of course, he believed in aliens and U.F.O.s and people on Mars - well, not _people_ on Mars, but Martians, or whichever term that they, as a society, preferred - and though such ideas were typically what he found cool, he now almost cringed at the thought. This was the planet he was on; this was the galaxy he was in; this was the universe he'd managed to find. In comparison to the universe, he was incredibly small, and when he compared himself to the size of the planet, he knew just how tiny his life was. The heart ticking away in his chest was one of many human hearts around him; he could be replicated, likely _was_ replicated somewhere else in this world. In comparison to the size of the world, he was nearly meaningless; if he ever fell off of the face of the earth, the world wouldn't dramatically change, and, he needed to admit it, that was a sad thought to realize.

But then he realized how small other parts of his life were. His deadlines, his embarrassments, his admissions, they were all so small in comparison to the rest of the world. What did that make his partnership with Kate? No matter what happened to them, the macro would remain the same, so who cared if he went out of his way to tell her how he felt? The world couldn't come crashing down if he told her again. Statistically - or, at least, what he _hoped_ was statistically - speaking, the world couldn't collapse from her reaction to his admission. From there, the greater population wouldn't be affected by his admission; even local communities wouldn't change. The trees would still grow, the stars shine, the people remain oblivious. So what was holding him back?

Honestly, what was holding him back?

As he returned to his room, a determined grin laced his lips. The next morning, he would tell her how he felt. Again. After giving her her pills, he would tell her, and he would give her space if she needed it, but he wouldn't let her run. No, he couldn't let her run, not when he was this close. If she wanted to walk away, then he would let her leave, but he refused to let her run. As he lay in bed, his smile widened, for he was going to tell her, and even if his admission went drastically wrong, he wouldn't harm the world, not when the world was so big. He was tiny, and he was determined, and though the bed was cold, he was oddly charmed by the coolness.

The next alarm at four-thirty in the morning was much less enticing than the first. Groggily silencing his phone's alarm, he slowly stood up, his head foggy. Walking into the living room, he saw that the sky was a shade brighter, daytime beginning to creep up to the lake. Ripples on the silent waters gave an allure to the place; maybe this morning would be warmer than the day beforehand had been. Silently, he opened her door once again, peeked in to see how beautifully she was sleeping once more. Peeling his eyes, he could only make out her outline, so he stepped closer, and-

His stomach plummeted. Racing to the bedside, he patted down over the right side, searched in desperation, but-

_She's not here._

And then the panic set in.


	4. Chapter 3

_A/N: Ah, yes! A decent time between updates! Let's hope this holds. Most of this was written to the score for the film Her, the first scene in particular written to "Milk and Honey" and the third scene written to "We're All Leaving." If you like film scores or beautiful music, I strongly suggest a listen. As a side note, the medical references in this have come from a similar experience I had in a hospital, so if I'm off, that's why. The rating change is there for some mildly uncomfortable scenes._

* * *

She wasn't in bed. In fact, she wasn't anywhere in this dark room; after he'd turned the lights on, he'd fallen over in remorse, his mind sending thoughts all too quickly. Had she moved, which she had, she either couldn't have gone far or had been taken, and, _shit_, what if someone had let themselves into the cabin and taken her? What if her shooter had found her? Damn it, had he left the front door unlocked? Had he? Honestly, had he? Three hours, that was how long it could take for something to go drastically wrong. In the worst-case scenario, she could've been abducted and taken around one hundred fifty miles from the cabin, and when he did the math for the square mileage that the 360 covered, he...

He couldn't. No, he couldn't do it, whatever _it_ was. Instead, he searched in desperation for any sign that she'd gone in a certain direction. The room was still neat, orderly; however, her bedside table was askew, her copy of _War and Peace_ left open on the floor. As he noticed that her phone was gone, he tried to picture the course of events, her obvious struggle, the way her attacker yanked her out of bed and took her phone for good measure.

_God, Kate, I-_

But before his panicked thoughts could continue, he heard a shift in the cabin, so he stilled, his breath gone, his mind silent. Then, the sound came once more, a sound like the bend of trees in harsh winds. As he tried to follow the sound, he left her bedroom, and then, the sound turned from soft creak to a wretch; suddenly, he knew exactly where she was, and though relief began to wash over him, he found new reasons to be terrified as he raced to the closed bathroom door. The lights were off; the door was unlocked; he pushed it open with such force that he nearly fell over as he switched on the lights.

And then he wished he'd kept the lights off.

With her face buried against the toilet, the crumpled heap of her was violently sick, her breaths sharp and short, her body cringing further with every breath. Vomit surrounded her on the bathroom floor as though she hadn't made it to the bathroom in time at first; however she'd managed to get to the bathroom on her own, she'd had evident trouble, and now, she moaned as she wretched further, her hair falling out of the braid, her body too weak and far too thin. A breathless _Kate_ was on his lips as he drifted down beside her, feared touching her at all as she sank farther and farther down. Then, his eyes went to her shirt, and-

Blood. There was blood. Blood was seeping from her left side up to her shirt. With the long line of sopped-up blood on her left side, he knew that she'd surely broken stitches and that she needed medical attention and that she needed it _now_, but right then, he couldn't move, couldn't see beyond the mess of her left in front of him. Instead, he found her phone right in front of her, and while he picked it up, he saw its newly cracked screen, noticed that she'd started typing a _9_ but had failed to complete the call. Without any sense of what he was doing, he typed two ones and prayed that words would come to him.

However, he ended the call quickly, for she raised her head up ever-so-slightly, and she started breathing heavily, a scared response, so he needed to do something, _anything_, to help her, but he couldn't do anything, could he? With each time he looked at her left side, he knew that he couldn't, for he was too afraid himself. What a coward, he told himself over and over again as she closed her eyes, tried to calm herself down. Within moments, he was rubbing her back gently, her name a whisper on his lips.

"What happened?" he managed, the words forced out like a cough.

Her eyes were vacant, and then, she leaned back over the toilet, dry-heaves echoing painfully throughout her body. Now, he needed to call, so he typed the three numbers, but before he could call, she reached back and grabbed at his arm with her right hand as if she were telling him to stop, a silent _I'm fine_ and _please don't do this._ Why was she suddenly refusing? She'd typed the beginning of _911_ anyway. If she'd already started trying to dial, then why would she want him to stop?

"Kate," he tried, his voice rough, but she gripped harder, her clammy skin making him shiver.

Against all morals, he waited for her to say something before he called, but she was shaking, and she could barely breathe, and at this point, expecting anything but a scared response from her would be optimistic. Instead, he tried desperately to think on his feet, and though he could call an ambulance, he would need to wait half an hour for the vehicle to arrive, and given the current downpour, he knew that the vehicle wouldn't bother speeding. He needed to bring her to a hospital, but how could he do so when he was only one person and when she was in such pain?

As she steadied herself, the heaves ceasing momentarily, she leaned back against him, turned to face him. Within moments, she was crumpled and quivering against his chest, her body wracked with what seemed to be sobs but were shudders of pain. At first, he was shocked with how she moved to him; she leaned against him for support, and as she breathed, he could feel the beat of her racing heart. Seeing his opportunity, he ever-so-gently wrapped his arms around her, held her securely as he lifted her up, his arms beneath her knees and behind her shoulders. She buried her forehead against his neck, and as he drifted our to his car with her in his arms, he could feel her staccato breath, could feel the pain that was coursing through her veins. Though the rain persisted on, he could hardly feel its spray. Thankfully, he'd left the car unlocked, so he gracelessly opened the passenger door, leaned back the seat, and laid her down there. As she lay on her side, she faced the car door, the blood on her shirt all too evident.

Crouching down, he tried to meet her eyes. Her body still quivered. This wasn't her, couldn't possibly be her. Though he tried to calm her down with brief whispers of _it's okay_ and _everything's going to be okay_ and _you're going to be okay_, he saw that it was no use, so he reached out for her hand, but she dared not move. His heart sinking, he whispered to her that he would be back in a moment, and leaving the car door open in case she needed to be sick again, he raced back inside.

Jim had left him simple directions to the nearest hospital. In fact, Jim had laid out all of her medical information with alarming organization. Taking Jim's notes from the living room, Rick pulled together what he could clearly realize he needed. Car keys, his cell phone, picture identification. He took a few plastic bags for her just in case; he grabbed a sweatshirt from his room and left as quickly as he could.

Unsurprisingly, she hadn't moved by the time he returned. Shutting her door gingerly, he tried not to scare her, and when he raced to his own door, he deftly put the key into the ignition, refused to let puddles in the dirt driveway hold him back. No, he wasn't going to hold back, not when she was letting out tiny sounds of pain, not whimpers but rather close to whimpers. He wanted to hold her, wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, but he needed to drive, so he floored the gas pedal when he could, pushed sixty miles per hour on back roads that only allowed thirty-five.

She needed one of the bags before he'd even gone a mile, and despite her pain, she'd managed to be sick into the bag and not into her lap; with every sound she made, he cringed further, drove faster. After he took a left at a light, he headed straight for four miles that seemed to last forever. The roads were empty; the rain was now harder than a drizzle but softer than a downpour; with every moment he could, he glanced to her, but with each glance, he shuddered, for her breaths were still sharp and rapid, and her body was still shaking, and she looked like a heap of blood and bones, not like Kate Beckett. Hoping that cops weren't out at this time of the morning, he pressed onward, went faster.

The hospital was tiny; the parking lot was mostly empty; he followed the signs all too slowly to the emergency bay, his parking terrible as he illegally left the car at the curb. Before anyone could force him to park elsewhere, he pulled the keys from the ignition, raced out to her door before another second could pass. Her body, limp and shaky, had remained in the same position throughout the ride, so he gingerly took her into his arms once more, drifted rushingly toward the automatic doors of the emergency bay. In the dark, rainy night, the artificial lights cast a dulling look upon her clammy skin; sweat pooled on her brow and rubbed onto his chest as she buried her face in his shirt. As he passed through the doors and into the seemingly silent emergency room, she grasped his shirt in her hands, a weak but still evident gesture.

He couldn't do this. No, he couldn't, but luckily, emergency nurses could, and within moments, scrubbed bodies were flocking him, his vision hazy as they begged him what had happened. Though he was barely conscious of his words, he managed to say _shooting victim_ and _ripped stitches_ and _vomiting for what may have been hours_ and _found her like this_. Then, people were prying Kate from his arms, and though he subconsciously pulled her closer, he let her leave his grasp, watched as nurses moved Kate onto a hospital bed, her back flat against the sheet until she cowered and contorted once more in pain. Before he could say anything else, the crowd forced Kate away, and as the group disappeared behind double-doors, Rick felt the wind knock itself out of him, his stomach empty yet scared, his lungs unmoving. Drifting, he managed to bring himself to a waiting room, where he sat down among mothers with feverish children and middle-aged men with chest pains.

Waiting rooms in the city were different; the city allowed for creativity, variability. In this waiting room, there were aged magazines, televisions playing wrestling shows or reruns of Supernanny, and toys that hadn't been touched in years. Upon the dark blue carpet, an arrangement of mostly empty chairs sat, and most of the walls were glass, making the room seem like a cage than like a place to wait while someone you love perished. No, she wasn't perishing, but as he breathlessly phoned a hospital valet to park his car, he couldn't stop thinking of how she'd grabbed his wrist and begged him not to call for help; when he called her father and had to say that she was being treated for something he didn't know of, Rick had been so scared for her that he could barely keep his voice from faltering. To Jim, he insisted that the older man stay in the city; she just needed more stitches, didn't she? Wasn't that it? It needed to be it. She couldn't deserve anything more than that. She couldn't-

"Mister Beckett?"

His eyes perked up in the instant. Looking up, he saw a young, scrub-clad man from beforehand standing in the waiting room's doorway.

"Could I have a word outside?" the man asked.

Nodding quickly, Castle stood, walked outside of the waiting room, and stood in the hallway with the nurse.

"You seem a bit young to be Miss Beckett's father," the nurse said.

"I'm - I'm a friend of hers," Castle managed. "Her father is out of town. I was caring for her when..."

He didn't feel obliged to finish.

"Though I don't mean to cause alarm," the nurse began, but already, Castle was alarmed, "we've begun treatment for what we believe to be septic shock."

No, she couldn't be going into septic shock. Septic shock could be fatal, and she couldn't die of septic shock, not when she'd survived a gunshot.

"Commonly, gunshot wound victims can develop underlying infections, so-"

"She can't be in septic shock."

"Excuse me?"

"She can't be in septic shock," Castle insisted, shaking his head. "She's on antibiotics, and she has weekly blood draws, and-"

"Even the most prepared patient can't prevent this, Mister..."

"Castle. It's Castle," Rick said breathlessly, his voice quieter than before.

"Though shock can come with its risks, we believe that we've caught it early enough to act," the nurse continued. "We're hoping for the best."

"Hoping for the best?"

Castle was hardly convinced, not when Kate had been vomiting and whimpering so greatly; he wasn't sure if he wanted the sweet but incorrect answer or the sour but correct one. For now, he just wanted her, and he wanted her safe, and he wanted her in his arms, and he wanted her to be happy, and, damn it, he just wanted _her._

"As soon as she's stable, we'll bring you to see her," the nurse said, nodding as he bid Castle goodbye.

While Rick breathed deeply, he walked back to his seat in the waiting room, folded his hands in his lap as he reluctantly forced his mind to go blank. Strangely, this room was perfect for a blank mind; the televisions added a white noise to the background while the magazines painted an easily-overlooked landscape, and within moments, he knew that his mind would go numb. Though he wanted to be thoughtless, he was brought back to the present as a mother a few seats away looked toward him, gave a soft smile.

"It's hard when a spouse is so sick," she offered, her maternal eyes obviously the one part of the night that had made her sick son sitting next to her calm.

_What?_

"Your wife, the woman you carried in," the mother said, almost reading his mind. "We had a bird's eye view in here."

_Oh._

Rick nodded slowly.

"With someone who loves her as much as you do, I bet you she'll make it through on her sheer will," the mother insisted, her smile soft.

But Rick couldn't smile, not now, not when Kate was being treated for sepsis. Instead, he gave gratuitous eyes, nodded twice, and turned his face away from the woman.

For now, he wanted to be numb.

* * *

The waiting was suffocating.

The others in the room were admitted. New patients came in. Healthier patients left. Beyond the sliding glass entrance doors, the navy skies turned pale, the sun lifting along distant tree lines. New employees came in. Previous employees left. Shifts ended and began while he watched the pointless television broadcasts turn to the morning news. On Wednesday morning, the rest of the world was heading to work while he sat in a cage of a waiting room hoping for any word about the condition of the woman he loved. To his chagrin, this feeling was all too familiar.

Though he hadn't tracked the times, he figured that six in the morning meant that they'd both been in the hospital for more than an hour; his first and only conversation with the nurse had been five or six minutes after their arrival. After he'd let his mind rest, he'd become nervy; his feet couldn't keep still, and every few minutes, he'd forced himself out of his seat and into the hallway, where he paced until he could clear his head once more.

When the nurse finally reappeared, Rick felt his heart stop.

"Mister Castle?" the nurse asked, his face impartial. "A word, please?"

Castle nodded twice, but his mind fired far too many thoughts for him to realize any of his actions; however, one thought outweighed all of the others.

_She can't be..._

In the hallway, the nurse looked to Castle, gave sympathetic eyes.

"Because the pain was too great for her, we struggled to suture her incision," the nurse explained. "We couldn't give her narcotics or sedatives for fear of the sepsis, so we treated the sepsis promptly. However, her symptoms didn't respond to the sepsis treatment, so we went ahead with the narcotic and sedative options along with another drug for nausea, and now, we're preparing to suture the incision."

Good news, Rick thought; this was good news. For the first time since he'd found her bed empty, he finally let his muscles relax.

"She asked for you," the nurse continued as Rick was too thankful to be astonished. "She'd like you to be there, if you wouldn't mind."

Nodding quickly, he gave a _yes_, a response that was now far more than natural for him. The nurse gave a tight-lipped smile, nodded once as well.

"Great. I'll take you back to her, okay?"

"Okay," Castle gave.

While the nurse walked him into the emergency room, he took out his phone, texted her father the most relieving of words.

_She's going to be fine._

* * *

Once more, he'd expected to see her bare, but he hadn't fully realized how bare she was until he came to her side.

In the stark, white room, she lay on her right side on the same bed as beforehand; a tissue gown had been cut so that only her side and shoulders were exposed, as though the gown were a strapless ripped party dress. Her hair hung in the remains of a braid, the elastic long-lost. While a woman in a lab coat prepped iodine over Kate's incision, Kate herself remained remarkably still; whatever drugs they'd given her, she was evidently more comfortable now. Carefully, he stepped to a chair that sat right in front of where she faced, and as he sat down, he looked to her, saw that her arms were free from the tissue gown. Crossing her arms over her chest, likely because a doctor had commanded her to do so, she covered her face with her hands, her expression unreadable. The nurse and the doctor brought supplies to where Kate lay, but beyond their vague movements, Castle couldn't see them; he could only keep his eyes on Kate, the steady tick of her intravenous fluids acting as a ticking clock in the quiet room.

Though he knew he would be overstepping if he did so, he reached toward her, held her hands in both of his, and when he moved her palms away from her face, he saw her closed eyes, her furrowed brow, her fear turning to acceptance. He placed her palms together in front of her face, a cross between a position of fight and of prayer; then, he ran a hand over her matted hair, felt compelled to lean down and kiss her forehead but never did. Though the doctor and the nurse had begun suturing, she opened her eyes softly nonetheless - he hoped she was enjoying the drugs even though her face showed a far-out, concerned look - and met his glance, her face bare once more, her breaths keeping time with a saline drip. Taking both of her hands in his, he crouched down and kneeled on the floor so that he could be at eye level with her; though they both temporarily averted their gazes from each other, her eyes mostly stayed with his, diligent promises passing between them while two people in the distance stitched her together.

From time to time, her brow would furrow just a bit more in pain, but she never flinched; instead, she stayed remarkably still as the sutures were put in place. Though the procedure took what seemed to be hours, she stayed still all the while, only moving once, when she took his hands and rested her face against them. Finally closing her eyes, she leaned against his knuckles, pressed his hands ever-so-closely to her face, and breathed out.

He could do this, all of this, any of this. He could do this, and he _would_ do this, would do anything for her. At this point, he wasn't even ashamed to think that way. Instead, he simply knew that he loved her from here until the end of the earth, and no matter what the struggle was, no matter how scared he was, he would do anything, absolutely anything, for her. And he loved her, but love wasn't a strong enough word anymore, for she had come into his life and filled a void he hadn't realized had been there, and she had given him adventure, and she had taught him the ways of her world, and she had allowed him to stay with her even when he pushed her most concrete of boundaries. And, damn it, she was beautiful, from the way she looked at him when she laughed at his stupid jokes to the way she listed off economic theories as though they were the most basic of ideas to the way she listened, truly listened, to everyone with whom she spoke. He would be there no matter what, no matter how the universe went against them, and he wouldn't leave, not unless he knew for sure that his leaving would only benefit her. Though he hadn't a clue as to how, he knew that he would be there. Always.

As the last suture was tied, she held his hands closer, and he wanted to kiss her gently, and he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and he wanted to commend her for how impossibly brave she was, but words seemed too heavy for the room, the air around them too thick, so he held her there, his palms so close to her cheeks, and hoped that it would be enough.

When she opened her eyes and looked up to him with such gratitude, he knew, for sure, that it would be enough.

* * *

"Sir?"

Groggily, Castle felt his body shake, and as he opened his eyes, a tall nurse surprised him, shaking him to wake him up.

"Rise and shine, buddy. You've got paperwork to review."

Slapping a clipboard onto his legs, the nurse left, leaving a disgruntled Castle, a plastic clipboard, and a sleeping Kate in her wake.

_Kate._

He quickly but surely looked to her, and now, she was dressed in a hospital gown - he'd left the room voluntarily as they'd dressed her - as she lay deeply asleep, her mouth just open a bit, her back soft against the hospital mattress. Checking his watch, he saw that nine-thirty had passed; he'd been asleep for nearly two hours. Somehow, he'd forgotten that the world beyond this room was still in motion, so he stood up from his chair, headed to the nurse's station in the hallway, where a nurse he recognized from the night beforehand stood.

"Hey," Castle offered.

Confused, the nurse gave back, "Hey."

"I...my...the woman I came in with," Castle tried, "the shooting victim with the torn surgery scar, how much do you know about her case?"

The nurse shrugged.

"As much as anyone else," she explained. "It kind of caused a scene."

"What do you mean?"

"The people who were staffed here last night haven't had that much action in _ages_," the nurse explained. "It's the gossip of the hospital now."

_Oh. Oh?_

"Anyway," Castle continued, "do you know what kind of sedative she was given around seven-thirty this morning? It was intended to help her sleep, and-"

"Sir, her dose was enough to keep her out for at least another hour," the nurse said. "Get some breakfast. Walk around. She'll be okay while you get some fresh air."

At that, Castle nodded once more, thanked the nurse as he headed back into Kate's room, where she still soundly slept. Picking up his phone and car keys, he pocketed the essentials and headed for the hospital's elevator. The cafeteria was on the third floor; he headed there first in hope of a cup of coffee and something to calm his still-nervous stomach. Surprisingly, the cafeteria in this small hospital far exceeded the cafeterias in New York hospitals; the food was organic, the coffee was fair-trade, and the people eating seemed to all somehow know one another. Despite the room's worth of people, he felt oddly isolated as he picked up a blueberry muffin and tried to find a to-go cup for coffee. Though styrofoam cups were common in New York, they seemed foreign in this hospital; everyone brought his or her own reusable travel mug, so Rick was the lone user of a paper-and-plastic-topped coffee cup. He didn't bother with cream or sweetener. After paying for his breakfast, he left the cafeteria with ease - he felt like an outsider in comparison to all of the locals who knew one another so well - and headed for the elevator; he needed to repair the night beforehand's broken memories, those related to where his car was now parked and how the cabin currently was. For all he knew, a plastic bag full of her vomit was still on his passenger's seat. Shaking his head, he tried to take that image from his mind.

After he'd managed to get his car keys back from the valet, he went to where his car was parked, unlocked the vehicle, and went to the passenger's side. Luckily, the valet had trashed the bags he'd brought for Kate - thank goodness - so the car's scent, though it was still a bit unpleasant, wouldn't make them both gag when she was discharged. He sat down in the driver's seat, shut the door as he took his phone from his pocket; pulling up a web browser application, he searched for cleaners in the area, and upon finding a group that took credit card payments, he began to phone their number, hoped that they could take a job on such short notice.

When he reentered the hospital, he knew the way to Kate's room, but this time, he entered through the main entrance instead of the emergency bay, so he noticed the little oddities that a small-town hospital had. There were statues made by local artists, nurses who cordially checked patients in, posters talking about how _New Hampshire wants you to quit smoking now_. Most of all, he noticed a little nook of which the entrance was covered in wreaths of locally-grown wildflowers. With a quirk of his lips, he read the sign in front of that nook.

_The gift shop._

Of course, he _needed_ to go in.

* * *

This time, the lights weren't nearly as bright.

When she'd first woken up after the surgery, she'd opened her eyes to blinding lights, a shade that had made her jaw clench, and with stress on her muscles, she'd begun feeling the pain. Of course, they'd drugged her enough that the brightness still seemed hazy, but she could feel nonetheless. Though she hardly regained cognitive functionality in the first few minutes of waking up, she could still remember Josh's blurred face above her, his hair messy, his blue scrubs bringing out his eyes. More than that, she could still remember what she'd first thought upon seeing him.

_You're not the one I want here._

And yes, she'd been drugged, but now, as she woke up once more, she wondered if the drugs had made her mind crazy or if the drugs had simply let her leave her inhibition behind.

Overnight, her neck had rolled to her right, so now, she could see him, still sitting in that obviously uncomfortable chair. A strewn clipboard in his lap, he'd conked out accidentally, but he was there, still there. But, wait, what time was it? She knew only that they'd gone to the hospital sometime in the early hours of the morning. How long had she been asleep? How long had _he_ been asleep? She needed to-

Before she could try to reach out and touch him, try to wake him up, she realized that a tiny stuffed animal sat next to her left arm. Its head equal with the intravenous line in her arm, a stuffed lion, complete with a little tail, watched the doorway directly in front of her, as though it were keeping watch. The toy couldn't have been bigger than six or seven inches long, and - oh - she could remember toys of this sort. Back in the mid-nineties, they'd been very popular, the _Beanie Babies_ rage. Though she herself had scoffed it, all those collectors looking for popular toys, her mother had found it charming, had kept the bear honoring Princess Diana on her desk. Though Kate hadn't seen one in years, this one held its original tags.

Flummoxed, she tried to call for the man she'd woken up to, gave, "Castle?"

Her throat was drier than she'd expected, and even talking had made her back hurt - no matter how she tried to sugar-coat it, she'd been sick many times the night beforehand, violently sick - so the words were almost smothered. Once more, she tried to say his name, and then, her rasp turned to a stronger voice, and luckily enough, he stirred, didn't seem to be too heavy a sleeper. His eyelids drooping, he slowly woke, adjusted in his seat as he looked to her.

"Kate," he said, a relieved smile upon his lips. "Hi."

Within moments, he was drawing his chair closer to her, and somehow, that...she felt something, a strange sense of relief, within herself as he came closer, as though she'd silently wished he would. Then, his smile grew larger, and she wanted to smile as well, but she had business to speak of, and...why was she bothering to hold back? She was in the hospital, she was tired, most parts of her body hurt, and having this man smile at her seemed to make everything momentarily better, so maybe, just maybe, she could neglect business. Screw the time! For now, she could succumb.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, almost flustered.

"Fine," she said, but the rasp was back, so she hardly sounded convincing.

"Is your mouth dry? God, you must be so thirsty, and-"

"Castle, I'm fine," she managed.

Holding up one finger, he quickly stood, said, "I'll be right back with ice chips."

She didn't need ice chips. No, what she needed was to have him sitting there smiling at her as though she mattered, for those moments between them were simple. However, moments of this new sort were hardly simple; she would argue that he needn't bring her ice chips, and then he would insist, and then he would go against her word, and then she would reluctantly take ice chips, every sip of hers filled with spite, and then he would apologize, and she would write it off as being _nothing_, and he would feel guilty, and she would feel guilty. Though she wished they weren't, they were complicated; theirs was a story of twists and of turns and of privacy and of secrets, so such a summary would play out with ease even though simply asking him to sit with her just a while longer could've so easily mended the moment. And that was who they were, the bound but boundless two, and now, they were, to her discontent, becoming predictable.

Against her judgement, she called, "Could you sit with me?"

And, like that, he stopped in the doorway, turned around to face her. She didn't want to think of how she looked, transcended by another hospital bed as her body lay in ruins. Her dark circles, her hair, the paling but harsh light of the room, all of it took from her, and based on how sick she still felt, this was not a way she wanted him to see her, but once that tiny smile of his revealed itself once more, she remember his words at the funeral. Though she had tried not to, she'd dwelled upon them for her two weeks, had wondered how exactly he'd meant them. There was the _I love you_ that encompassed the journey they'd had together, the books. In such a proclamation, his statement meant that he loved her but not that he was in love with her; this statement shared his love but didn't prove it. In another statement of the same words, he could've told her that he was in love with her and that he wished to build upon that love. However, her final idea for the statement seemed to shine through whenever he gave that little smile; he had said those words because he couldn't have gone on knowing that he'd never said the three words that had been leaking from his lips for some time now. Though she knew not when, he had fallen in love with her, a maddening, all-encompassing love that could hardly be changed by thought or by presence or by action. Now, as he returned to her bedside, sat close to her for the comfort she hadn't wanted to long for, she knew that this love he had for her wouldn't simply leave him, and, of course, that terrified and excited her in more ways than she could say.

Forcing herself not to think of things that would make her upset, she turned her attention back to the stuffed lion that watched over her.

"Castle?" she asked, her mouth still dry.

He hummed in response, met her glance.

"What's this?" she asked, looking down to the lion.

"It's a patronus," he said, as if saying so were natural and easy.

Before she could ask further, her doctor entered the room, so her open jaw closed, and to her delight, the doctor was carrying a cup of ice chips.

* * *

"Miss Beckett, Mister Castle," her doctor addressed as he passed the cup of ice chips to Rick.

Looking tup to the man, Castle gave a nod of thanks, then looked to the doctor as he took Kate's chart from the end of her hospital bed, flipped through the pages to review. While the doctor put the cup of ice chips onto the arm of his chair, Castle kept his glance on the doctor.

"Though I cannot speak for everyone else, I, for one, am truly glad to see that this was just a bump in your road to recovery," the friendly doctor said, opening her chart to a piece of note-paper. Doctors still used loose-leaf paper? As if his morning hadn't already proven it so, Rick realized once more that life was different in places where minds didn't travel at hundreds of miles per minute. He'd even found a Beanie Baby stuffed animal with its original tags in the hospital's gift shop. "However, I'm sure we'd all like to know how this situation came about so that we won't hit another bump."

Though Kate didn't move, Rick could sense a nod in her gaze; she was willing enough. However, she seemed uncomfortable with Castle in the room, and as he looked to her, she was withdrawn, her face far-out as she tried to avoid his glance. He wanted to stand up and leave, but he couldn't bring himself to, not after the night beforehand.

"It happens every month," she said to the doctor, her discomfort evident. "When a certain time comes - or, rather, _before_ a certain time comes - I spend a night sick, but I hardly ever vomit more than twice in that one night, and it's gone by morning. Although I normally would have been expecting it at a certain time, the shooting and the drugs have..."

The doctor nodded before she could finish her sentence.

"It's not unusual for cocktails of drugs to throw a body off," he said, writing things down on his blank sheet.

Kate kept her gaze down, and now, Castle could see that she wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as she was embarrassed. Of course, they both understood menstrual cycles, and they both could acknowledge the existence of each other's, well, certain organs, but nonetheless, referencing certain organs wasn't something they did comfortably. The discomfort that came from such references reminded him of the times when his mother would show baby pictures to his girlfriends; though something existed in an unspoken state, its existence was simply not to be discussed in certain partnerships. Though he wanted to discuss - well, no, he wouldn't finish that sentence.

"Anyway," Kate continued on an exhale, "I wasn't expecting it, so I wasn't prepared for it, and at some point in the middle of the night, I woke up and was about to be sick, so I ran to the bathroom as quickly as I could, resulting in torn stitches and a lot of pain. Even though the vomiting started out from something else, I was mostly ill out of pain."

She kept still then, her explanation over, and as the doctor finished writing his sentence, he pressed on with speech.

"As the vomiting does not seem to be a medical complication from your surgery," he concluded, looking up to meet Kate's glance, "you'll likely be discharged in the early afternoon. However, we'll monitor you until we can confirm that your incision site is clean and healing."

Looking to him, Kate gave, "Good. Thank you."

Finishing his notes, the doctor began to stand up, went to head out of the room. A brief consult, that was all it had been. Castle could only imagine what the bill for such a consult would be.

Of course, he couldn't keep still in the silence that followed. Instead, he twiddled his thumbs, cracked his knuckles, rubbed the sore spot on the back of his neck. Her gaze remained away from him as he shifted position in his ever-so-uncomfortable chair; the silence between them was deafening, and though the silence wasn't tense, the silence didn't feel welcoming either.

"So," he finally offered, his nails no longer interesting enough to occupy his thoughts.

"Where are the ice chips?" she asked, looking back over to him.

Her lips were dry as he glanced to her, so he took the cup of ice from the arm of his chair and moved closer to her, tried to pass her the cup. However, she hardly moved to take the cup, so he stilled, looked to her for some form of instruction.

"Do you want me to-"

"Just hold it up to my mouth, Castle," she insisted. "I don't want to move."

He nodded quickly, brought the cup to her lips too eagerly, and as she slurped - normally, he would've mocked that sound, but for now, he bit his cheeks - he saw the relief in her face, the thankfulness as her lips moistened once more. Of course, she didn't stop at one sip, and by the time she seemed to slow, he took the cup from her, afraid that she would vomit again if she drank - chewed? - any more ice.

"So," she asked, her voice stronger this time as she turned her head toward him, "do you plan on explaining this _patronus_ on my arm?"

He placed the cup back on the arm of his chair, folded his hands.

"You see, Beckett," he explained, "there's a series of novels featuring a character known as Harry Potter-"

"I've read _Harry Potter_, Castle," she insisted.

"The patronus is a protective spell," he said. "It takes on an animal's shape. It's cool."

"And you think that my patronus is a lion, hence this guy on my arm?"

"Goodness, no. Your patronus would _never_ be a lion."

"Really?"

She hardly seemed enthused about his speculation.

"No, you're not a lion. A lioness, maybe, beautiful but lethal. However, you're not a lion."

"So, Rick, what am I?"

"A phoenix."

"Ah. A phoenix."

"Anyway," he continued, "_my_ patronus is a lion, and I didn't want you to be unprotected during the night, so every time I got up to pee, this guy would keep watch."

Though she looked at him mockingly, there was an undeniable quirk in her lips; no matter how outlandish she found his gestures, another part of her was oddly charmed. He could go for oddly charmed.

"Well, thank you," she said. "That's sweet."

"Plus, the bathrooms here smell like peppermint. It was hard not to leave."

And now, she gave a smile, the closest thing she could muster to a laugh. However, she still looked sleep-adled, her body relying so greatly on that hospital bed. Quieting himself, he leaned closer to her, folded his hands once more.

"You should rest more," he said. "You had a long night."

"You had a long night as well."

"We both did."

Then, her face dropped, and quickly, she said, "My father-"

"Has been informed and knows that you're alright," Castle quickly covered. "He's still in the city."

"Good," she said. "And-"

"There are cleaners at the cabin. The bathroom, the linens, and the laundry will all be cleaned."

"Castle, that's expensive, and-"

"Again, I'm not leaving here, Kate," he said, looking to her. "Like it or not, I'm in this with you."

She dared not retaliate, only shifted her gaze to the walls.

"I don't like sleeping in hospitals," she admitted, turning her gaze back to him. "There's either too much activity or too little."

"There must be something gratifying to it, isn't there?" he asked. "You've gotten through the hardest part. Now, all you need to do is sleep."

Her lips curved up, a bittersweet, solemn smile.

"Everyone thinks that surviving is some sort of renewing experience," she said, her eyes down. "There's this idea that nearly losing yourself allows you to embrace every opportunity you'd forgotten you had. Suddenly, life is attainable; the future is in your own hands. However, surviving, as terrible a word to use as it is, doesn't begin that way, as a redemptive experience. Surviving begins with knowing exactly what has been taken from you. Your life, your family, yourself."

He was quiet for a long while, and as her intravenous fluids ticked on, he tried to think of something, anything, to say. However, he came up short with everything he tried, for she was correct. Though surviving was a powerful idea, the idea had been greatly romanticized, and now, she was in the shadow of her shooting, not in the light. More than that, she had a right to be in the shadow; this was a stage, so she deserved to experience it, to build from it.

Trying, he asked, "What has it taken from you?"

She almost choked out a laugh, a satirical little sound, for he knew how much had been taken from her; he knew about her mother's case, about her own impaired movement, about the fragility of her own life.

"They're fairly sure that I'll never be able to have children," she said, looking toward him. "It's expectable, really. My heart couldn't endure the process, and I would be high-risk at best, and I'm not young enough anymore."

She looked to him, gave a glance of the purest honesty.

"You never think that you'll lose those kinds of things, you know?" she asked rhetorically. "You never think that surviving would narrow your opportunities. All of those survivors, the ones on the news and on television, they talk about how _open_ their lives are, but they never talk about how narrow their lives can become."

"Did you want kids?"

She closed her eyes as if to say _beside the point_, reopened them.

"It's just an example, Castle."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Fine. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I would have wanted the possibility."

He nodded twice, unsure that he wanted to push for more information. No children. A pity, he thought; her children would've been beautiful, and they'd have been smart as well. Even now, he could picture a daughter of hers with bouncing curls and bright green eyes, a daughter who begged her mother to read _Lord of the Rings_ to her despite the little girl's young age. If Kate Beckett ever had a son, he would be daring beyond belief, enough to make his mother the worst of worriers, but he would be shy as well, wouldn't be afraid to admit that he was scared. Oh, and she would've made a _great_ mother, someone who was protective beyond belief and who was unimaginably loving and who raised her children to use their manners, to tip fifteen-percent or more, to use the connections they were given, to defend themselves in times of need. As he knew from first-hand experience, parents needed to be superheroes both to their children and to themselves, and undeniably, Kate Beckett could be just that.

But she no longer could have kids, and though there were alternate ways to build a family, he doubted that she would search endlessly for a baby of her own. She was correct; survival did seem narrowing, unlike all of the success stories that audiences loved to hear. However, he could still reach his hand out to hold hers, and even though the gesture felt sad, the silence between them held hope as she wrapped her fingers around his. She breathed in, held her breath, exhaled slowly. Though he wanted to joke in order to clear the air around them, he couldn't bring himself to speak, not now.

She was alive. He needed to focus on that once more. Though she could be broken and narrowed and hurt, she was still Kate, as whole as she could be, and he loved her, wide, narrow, or otherwise. They had five or six more hours in this hospital, and then, he could take her back to the cleaned cabin, bring her fresh laundry and linens, make her a big lunch and tuck her in for a midday nap and do anything he possibly could so that she would feel okay for a while. There was no doubt to it; he would do whatever it took, and though he knew not yet how to make life better for her, he knew that he would do everything in his power to learn what she wanted most. And she was alive. She was alive, and he was alive, and for now, he could hold her hand and hope that the gesture was enough.

When she gently ran her thumb over the back of his hand, the most motion she'd done since waking up, he felt his hope become fulfilled.


	5. Chapter 4

_A/N: To continue with this whole "writing music" theme, I'll tell you guys that I wrote most of this to the OST for the film Submarine, particularly "Stuck on the Puzzle" and "Hiding Tonight" in the third scene. This chapter is massive mainly because of the final scene. I'm crossing my fingers that all of this is in character. Also, the French used in this chapter is terribly inaccurate on purpose, or, at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. _

* * *

"So, Beckett."

She met his eyes fervently, her gaze as daunting as her tired eyes could manage; from the way she sucked her lips in, he could tell that she'd wanted to evoke this feeling in him, a feeling of such...such _want._

Meeting her eyes with his own smoldering blues, he asked, "Got any..."

She tilted her head down once more, dared him further.

"Any twos?"

She pursed her lips, gave, "Go fish."

And, at that, he knew the truth of his Go Fish defeat even though their game was far from finished. As she lay there, she stacked piles upon piles of four matching cards, the threes, eights, jacks, and queens all hers. Meanwhile, he held a pile of aces, and though the game had only just begun, he could tell with ease that she was the one who everyone at parties wished to beat in a board game. Board game parties? He really _was_ losing his playboy edge.

"It's a good thing that you didn't want to play strip poker," Beckett said, her voice soft as she looked to him from her hospital bed.

"Why not?" Castle asked as he took a card from their pile, conveniently placed next to the patronus so that they both could reach.

"After one turn, I'd have lost in this thing," she said, tugging on her hospital gown.

And now he was picturing strip poker with her, when she would stand up from that bed, peel the gown from her body with the confidence that only a nude Kate Beckett could flaunt. Sure, he'd lost his playboy edge, but when she said things like that and followed the statement with such an innocent and joking smile, he knew that this loss was hardly a sacrifice.

"So," she asked, "got any sixes?"

Damn it. He had three sixes. Where had her strategies even come from?

"Actually-"

"Ms. Beckett? Mister Castle?"

Rick glanced to the doorway, where Kate's doctor stood.

"I hope you've both had a restful morning," the doctor said as he took Kate's charts from the foot of her hospital bed.

Looking over the charts, the doctor seemed satisfied; meanwhile, Kate's hands tensed as she folded her cards on her lap. Castle himself had kept the cards fanned in his hands, so for now, he put his down as well.

"I see that nothing out of the ordinary has occurred for most of the morning," her doctor said, looking for confirmation.

Unsure of what to say, Kate gave, "I've been feeling better."

"Do you have any questions, concerns?" the doctor asked, this question for both of them.

Glancing to Rick, Kate opened her mouth to speak but didn't say anything; thankfully, he managed to see what she wanted to ask.

"Will this alter her recovery time?" he asked.

Grimacing, the doctor said, "There's that possibility, yes. Most likely, we'll push physical therapy sessions to a later date."

Of course, Kate sunk down, almost cowered as she heard the words, but Castle managed to nod instead.

"If that's all the questions you have, then I'll bring by discharge papers," the doctor said, leaving her chart at the foot of the bed. "I hope you both have a better day today."

"Thank you," Rick gave, smiling as the doctor left.

As he turned back to her, he saw that Kate was still stuck on the news, her focus on the longer recovery time. She averted her gaze; she kept her eyes down; she didn't react to the way he smiled upon knowing that she was being discharged. Though he hadn't a clue as to how he could take her mind off of the news, he knew that he could reach out for her hand, and when she saw his palm near hers, her frown left her face, and in a moment, she took his hand. The solemn smile upon her lips was hardly comforting; instead of looking okay, she still looked crushed, but as he held her hand once more, she showed him that even though he was hardly helping at all, he was still helping.

Though he couldn't fix things for her, he could be there for her, and as she traced his knuckles with her thumb, he knew that there was no where else he would rather be.

* * *

Though she had insisted, he hadn't wanted to leave her alone while her discharge papers were processed. Instead, he had wanted to stay there with her despite the numerous times when she mentioned that the cabin was running low on food, that she didn't have clothing to wear out of the hospital, and that he needed to tip the cleaners back at the cabin heavily. He'd left with a pout on his lips, the patronus still sitting next to her while he sulked out.

He managed to find a grocery store close enough to his route home, so he stopped in there, thanked his lucky stars that Jim had left a list of foods that Kate could have. Just in case, Rick added ginger ale and saltines to his shopping basket as he walked through the quiet aisles of the market. Oats, a carton of soy milk, extra-firm tofu, brown rice, a bag of spinach. Wandering toward the deli section, he contemplated buying himself a pastrami sandwich but strayed before he could order. Instead, he found another section of the store, a place where bouquets of wildflowers were hand-tied and left on display. Although Kate and he weren't together, he hardly saw harm in bringing her flowers, so picking a bunch filled with sunflowers, little orange buds, and a plethora of purple petals, he softly put the bouquet into his basket. On his way to the checkout, he saw magazines on racks, newspapers hanging up, and suddenly, he remembered that it was Wednesday, only a few days before his book proposal was due. Cursing in his mind, he tried to think of when he could finish the proposal while he pulled his wallet from his pocket. The last thing he needed was Gina forcing him around, and although he'd managed to begin the next book, he hadn't a clue as to where he would take his characters. Though the ideas were there, the grand outcome was hardly prepared, so now, he needed to think of something as quickly as he could.

Uncomfortable in the silence of this northern place, he turned the radio on when he drove home with the groceries, the same station coming through his car's speakers. This time, the station played a song of Gwen Stefani's from the mid-nineties, and as the sharp vocals came in, he didn't speed along the back roads. Now, he went thirty-five miles per hour when he needed to go thirty-five, and he came to a full stop at every stop sign, and when he returned to the cabin, he parked stoically, took his keys and pocketed them as he headed into the cabin.

Though the cabin held the slightest aroma of bleach, he was glad to see that his hired cleaners had diligently cleaned the cabin. Of course, he'd only asked for the linens, the laundry, and the bathroom to be cleaned, but nonetheless, he could tell that meticulous effort had gone into the work; the laundry, folded in a basket on the couch, was well-organized, the linens back on her bed. While he went to put the groceries away, he took the wildflowers, found a vase for them, and left them on the island table in the kitchen; he wanted her to come home to a home, not to a sterilized place. Once everything was in order, he went into her laundry with caution - he felt invasive for once, strange as that was - and tried to find something comfortable.

Of course, he found an onslaught of pajama pants, her standard long-sleeved shirts, a pair of worn-down sweatpants, and though he had plenty of options to choose from, he couldn't seem to find the right thing. What would her favorite shirt be? Did she prefer one pair of pants to another? Was it too hot a day for a long-sleeve? Softly checking through the folded clothes, he looked for exactly the right thing, but then, he stopped, his fingers hovering around one certain shirt. The material of the shirt was familiar, far too familiar, so out of curiosity, he took the shirt from the basket, and holding the shirt up, he stopped, his thoughts momentarily behind him.

_My red shirt._

Though most people owned a shirt of this kind, a big, comfortable shirt for staying at home or for very casual gatherings, he knew for a fact that this was _his_ shirt. The rip at the right underarm, the missing seam at the hip, this was his shirt, and even though he hadn't wondered of the shirt's whereabouts, he nonetheless was surprised to see that she still had his shirt. How long ago had he leant this to her? He remembered taking her in after her apartment had been bombed, and despite her attempts to push him away, he'd refused to let her be alone. Instead, he'd given her his guest room, a pair of his mother's yoga pants, his own shirt. After she'd left the loft, he'd forgotten about the red shirt, but now, it was here, and she was here, and this wasn't New York, so that could've meant many things. However, he could narrow down two definitions; either she'd brought the shirt to the cabin many months ago and left it there by accident or for when she needed to stay overnight, or she'd brought the shirt to the cabin when she and her father had traveled there a bit more than a week beforehand. No matter what, she hadn't simply left this shirt at the bottom of her drawer and forgotten to give it back to him; no, she'd voluntarily taken his shirt with her to this cabin for one reason or another. For reasons he couldn't understand, that excited him beyond his own belief.

Because he was unsure as to how she felt about the shirt, he decided not to bring this particular shirt; he didn't want to embarrass her, so instead, he picked up a grey tee shirt from some charity run she'd probably done years beforehand, grabbed a pair of Stanford sweatpants that she'd likely had for years. He took modest underwear with him, went to leave the cabin with a tiny smile on his lips.

Maybe she felt something toward him as well. At this point, stranger things could've happened. Later on, he would ask her about the shirt, but for now, he would bring her home, take her to bed, and make her as comfortable as he could. They could talk, and she could read, and he could write, and maybe, things would feel stable again. More than anything, he would be there, for they were great independently, but together, they were unstoppable.

Always, he thought as he unlocked his car. He wondered if she would have said it back had she been there.

* * *

"Just bring me to bed, okay? I'm tired."

"Kate-"

"Castle, I'm not hungry. Please, just bring me to bed."

"You haven't eaten all day, Kate."

"Castle, _please_."

As he carried her bridal-style into the cabin's living room, he decided that she deserved control for once, so reluctantly, he took her toward the bedroom, pushed his back against the door in order to open the room up. With clean linens on the made bed, the room looked cozier, more comfortable; he laid her down on the right side of the bed, let her crawl beneath the blankets on her own. She pulled the quilt over her body, exhaled as her body collapsed against the bed, thankful to be home. Pulling up the oak desk chair to her bedside, he sat down, looked to her.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. "A glass of water, a-"

"I'm fine, Castle," she insisted. "Can you pull the blinds down?"

He nodded twice, stood up and went to the window so that he could pull the blinds down, bringing their own makeshift nighttime into the room. Now, the only light in the room came through cracks in the blinds, and as he carefully stepped to the left side of her bed, he took an unused pillow, dropped it to the ground, and sat down on the floor. He eased himself into a resting position on the floor, and though the floorboards were hardly comfortable, he closed his eyes anyway, found sleep coming easily.

"Castle?"

Her voice was quiet, unsure. Opening his eyes, he glanced to his right, and though she was too high above him on the mattress for him to see, he still looked toward her.

"What?"

"Why are you still in here?" she asked, her voice not uncomfortable but instead genuinely questioning.

He didn't want to tell her why, for she didn't deserve to feel as though she were a burden. In fact, he didn't think she was a burden, but he knew how she would interpret the situation, and he didn't want her to be any more uncomfortable with him than she already was, so he quieted, tried to find something to say.

"I'm here just in case," he said.

"In case?"

"After last night, Kate," he said, "I don't want to take any chances."

"At least come up here then."

He stopped for a moment, tried to see if her words were real, and when he realized that her words had, in fact, been real, his eyes bugged, and his throat closed, and he felt his heartbeats throughout his body.

"Are you sure?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, and, damn it, how had he become so lovestruck that simply lying somewhere near to but still in the same bed as this woman was a jaw-dropping, heart-stopping idea?

"The bed's plenty big, and I don't take up much of it," she said. "You'll be farther away than you were when you sat with me in the hospital."

"It's fine," he covered. "I'll stay on the floor."

He could almost hear her roll her eyes.

"Castle," she insisted, and that was all he needed to hear in order to pick himself up off of the floor and place his pillow back onto her bed, keeping the pillow at the point as close to the bed's edge as possible.

Staying above the blankets, he lay down, his left leg almost falling off of the bed. As she'd insisted they would be, they were fairly far away, but he could feel her body heat, could hear rain beginning to fall outside, could hear her breathing, and somehow, this was all too intimate, so he wanted to get up, but before he could, she spoke.

"I'm tired, Castle," she said, turning her head to her left shoulder so that she could look at him.

He folded his hands over his sternum, looked up toward the ceiling.

"Then sleep, Kate."

"Can _you_ fall asleep as soon as you get into bed?"

"Sure," he said, turning his head to his right so that he could look at her. Suddenly, he stopped, reassessed his next statement, and shakily gave, "Want me to prove it to you?"

And that line, _that_ made things uncomfortable. She paused, bit her lip, tried to clear the air with conversation.

"Tell me about your summer so far," she said. "I need to clear my head."

He looked back up to the ceiling, and thinking, he tried to remember something that didn't have to do with missing her or with her shooting or with moping around because he couldn't write, but to his discontent, he couldn't find a memory to tell her. Opening his mouth to speak, he tried to make something up, but all of his musings felt more artificial than they did fictional, so he paused, closed his mouth. She sighed, looked at the ceiling as well.

"You too?" she asked, oddly saddened.

Breathing out, he gave, "Me too."

They were silent for a long while, and as they stayed quiet, he could feel her thinking, and, most likely, she could feel him thinking, so he studied the ceiling, looked at the way that the white paint chipped in certain areas. To his left, a long crack wound in an arc shape, so he labeled that one as the _Arc Dipper_ of this little sky they had. Spotted water-damage stains clustered at the corners closest to the windows, so those were galaxies far, far away, places where extraterrestrial paint life lived on. And then there was a little piece of painter's tape left at the doorframe, as though the last time during which they'd painted had never truly ended; this lonely tape astronaut floated on into oblivion, Newton's laws hardly working in his favor.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him quietly.

"The ceiling."

"The ceiling?"

"The ceiling," he confirmed casually. "If you look at the tape above the doorframe, it's all alone, like a little astronaut floating into oblivion."

"That's really dark, Castle."

"Oh."

Oh. Well, it was, but-

"How do you think like that?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, meeting her gaze in the dark.

"How do you imagine things with such ease?" she asked. "It's...it's fascinating, really. When I need to make something up, all of my thoughts are calculated risks; I would've taken that piece of tape off of the wall before I could see the romanticism in it. So, how do you do it?"

He grimaced, said, "I'm not sure."

"It's a good trait, not a bad one," she said, nodding twice to him.

Because he was unsure as to how he should react, he nodded as well, turned his head back to the ceiling.

"So," he asked, "what are the things that should _fascinate_ me about you?"

The word was a joke on his tongue; pursing her lips, she looked embarrassed.

"That was a poor choice of words on my part," she admitted.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"There aren't many fascinating things about me, Castle," she said, shaking her head as she looked back to the ceiling. "I'm a cop, I work too much, and I order takeout more than I should. None of that is interesting, let alone fascinating."

"Come on," he insisted. "There's more to you than that."

"Like what?"

"What's your favorite color?" he asked.

"Castle, that's not even the least bit fascinating."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone."

"You see, this is why I have an imagination and you do not."

She rolled her eyes with the tiniest of grins, and on an exhale, she spoke again.

"It's purple," she said, her voice just a bit quieter.

"Favorite band?"

"Castle."

"I'm serious. What is it?"

She sighed, said, "I don't know."

"What's a band that you like?"

"I like Fleetwood Mac."

"See? That's interesting!"

"Not really."

"Fine. Favorite movie?"

"_Castle._"

"If you don't like my prompts, then you can always just say what comes to mind."

"I'm closing my eyes now."

"Okay. Goodnight, Kate."

He too shut his eyes, and leaning his head to his left shoulder, he tried to calm his mind, and as he'd told her, he could find sleep easily. Letting thoughts leave him, he felt his eyelids become heavier, his body becoming lighter. By the time the rain started to pour, he was already half-asleep, his mind slowing down.

"I watch the Star Wars movies in release order, not episodic order."

Slowly, he opened his eyes again but kept his gaze to the left.

"Whenever I go out to eat with friends, I order steak, but with romantic partners, I hardly ever order steak even though I know I should," she continued, her voice honest, bare. "I ran track for two years in high school and hated it. I didn't know what a feminist was until college. When I was nineteen, I pierced the cartilage on my left ear, and it swelled so much for three days that I could only sleep on my right side. The Chinese restaurant I order from knows me by name and asks me about work sometimes. On weekends when I'm not on call, I'll lie to friends and claim that I'm busy solely because I would rather read than go out. I've never seen _Forrest Gump_. November is my favorite month. I don't like floral perfumes very much, but I love the scent of jasmine. I received my karate black-belt when I was fourteen. My favorite candy is white chocolate. Once, I snuck onto Pearl Jam's tour bus and stole Eddie Vedder's jean jacket. I love strawberries. At this point, I'll even drink the world's worst cup of coffee."

Then, she stopped, her voice almost hesitant yet still committed. And he smiled, let his lips curve up even though she couldn't see his face from where she lay, for she was fascinating, no matter how much she would deny that fact. Even though she didn't seem to think so, she was fascinating, from the way she looked so beautiful in a gown to the way she seemed to have battle tactics hidden up her sleeves to the way she stoically honored the victim. If such an action wouldn't have caused a whole array of responses to happen, he would've turned toward her, kissed her, told her how much he loved her, but instead, he turned to look up at the ceiling, refolded his hands, and held his smile.

Venturing, she tried, "Thinking about the ceiling again?"

He let his lips lift just a bit more, nodded even though he was hardly thinking about the ceiling.

"There's a scene in _War and Peace_ that I read right before you came here," she said. "In the scene, Prince Andrei, who is in battle, is attacked, and as he falls backward, wounded, he lands on the ground and looks up at this endless sky."

Turning to look at her, he watched as she kept her gaze up and, with fervor, described this scene.

"Suddenly, everything becomes clear to him," she explained. "Once his narrowing ideas of glory and control leave him, he feels so light. He realizes his duties to his family, to his wife, to his country, and all the while, he can't stop thinking of the vastness and beauty of this sky, how uncontrolled it is by the rest of the world. From the sky, he knows what he must do, that he must leave the war and return home to those whom he had neglected. Though he only sees the sky once, everything nonetheless falls into place."

A pregnant pause came; then, Castle added, "Funny."

"Funny?"

"Funny is the wrong word," he corrected himself. "It's just strange because I had something similar happen to me last night."

"Really?" she asked, her voice quieting further. "When?"

He went to tell her that he'd realized that all he needed to do was tell her how he felt, but before he could say much of anything, he halted. After the night she'd had, she didn't deserve torment caused by him, but then again, how could it be torment to admit to her that he loved her? Even now, he didn't need to use the word _love_; instead, he simply needed to tell her that he wanted to be more with her. Could he go ahead and say it? He could, couldn't he. All he needed to do was say a few words, and then, she would know, and no matter what happened, the world wouldn't drastically change. Sure, things could become different between them, but he wanted that difference, wanted to see what they could be together.

But she'd had a rough night. In fact, she'd had a rough year. Her training officer had betrayed her and was later murdered, she'd discovered terrifying news about her mother's case, she'd learned that her captain had been withholding the truth about her mother's case from her, she'd forgiven her captain for his actions, she'd watched as her captain had passed away, and she'd been shot at his funeral. After all, she'd told him that she wasn't ready for anything just yet; she wasn't in the right place, as she'd said that first night as he'd sat beside the couch with her. She'd asked him to be patient; the least he could do was give her time to heal.

Though it was unbearable for him to, he lied, said, "Last night, before I went to bed, I looked at the sky and felt the new book just...come together. Suddenly, I realized that I don't need to fear a cause-and-effect just yet; I merely need to write a proposal and email it to my publisher. Whenever I begin a book, I feel this commitment to perfecting every sentence, but first drafts are hardly ever worth reading. In the end, I can look back at the zany first draft and reminisce; all those struggles, they seem so small when you're holding a copy of your printed novel in your hands. It's...it's magnificent, really, and I guess it all came together last night."

The room was quiet for a moment; then, she nodded twice, kept her eyes on the ceiling.

"I'm glad that it fell into place for you," she said, looking to him.

_Oh, if only you knew._

"Yeah," he said, glancing to her. "Me too."

And then she shifted, turned her head to her right shoulder, and once more closed her eyes softly. He, too, adjusted for sleep, closed his eyes in hope that sleep would come to him just as quickly as it had beforehand. However, he now had trouble trying to sleep for reasons he couldn't understand. Maybe he was too wired to sleep, the night beforehand's events still too clear in his mind. Shifting in bed, he tried to count backwards from twenty, to count sheep, to breathe deeply. No matter what he seemed to try, he could hardly find sleep; instead, he stayed there in bed wide awake, Kate still beside him.

Peeking his eyes open, he looked over to her. Silently, she slept, her breaths long and even, her hands gently tugging the quilt up toward her face. Her long neck relaxed against the pillow; the softest of snores escaped her, and then, he realized why he couldn't sleep. With her so close by, he couldn't sleep, for she wanted to wait, and he didn't want to push, and being in some in-between, uncommitted _thing_ was hardly how he wanted to try to be more with this woman. Easing himself out of bed, he stood up, took his pillow back to the floor, and lay on the floor once more. No matter how much less comfortable the floor was, he nonetheless could peacefully close his eyes now, his space cold but oddly better.

Within minutes, he managed to fall asleep.

* * *

When she woke, the rain had cleared, the room was still dark, and he was gone.

Though she had pretended she hadn't, she had heard him shift sleeplessly as he'd laid beside her; she'd felt him look at her, and she'd felt him leave her bed. She shouldn't have been surprised that he'd left, but when he'd gone, she'd felt an alarming emptiness in the bed, his presence too far away. And why had she even invited him in? Sure, the bed was more comfortable than the ground, and after the night beforehand, she didn't want to take too many chances, but why had she asked him to be so close?

And why had she felt empty after he'd left?

She turned to her left, and, damn it, the pain came back in waves. Breathing in harshly, she cursed in her head, knew that this feeling was inevitable but still dreaded it anyway. After the night beforehand, her normal twinges and aches had intensified; now her incision needed to heal all over again, and she most definitely felt that fact as she looked toward the bedroom door. Maybe Castle would come to her if she called for him. What time was it? She craned her neck and looked at the clock on her bedside table, saw that seven in the evening had just passed. Then, she looked above the clock, and in that moment, the pain seemed momentarily irrelevant, for the patronus sat right on top of her clock, its little feet hanging off the front as its stitched face smiled at her. Of course, she smiled back.

Hearing her door creak open farther, she quickly turned her head the opposite way, cursed in her mind for moving so quickly. Luckily, Castle was standing in the doorway, and as she met his glance, she was still smiling. Oddly enough, he smiled as well.

"Hey," he offered as he came to her side, sat down on that oak chair he'd left next to her bedside table.

"Hey," she offered, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Have a nice nap?"

He leaned his elbows onto his knees, folded his hands.

"A nap?" she asked with mild astonishment. "Castle, I was asleep for nearly six hours."

"And?"

"That's not a nap; that's a night's sleep."

"Ah, the sleeping habits of a cop," he said blissfully. "One of the many perks of not actually being a cop is that eight hours of sleep is still feasible."

"Gloat all you want," she said, "but at the end of the day, I don't have book proposals to write."

"You know, I got some of that done today," he said, meeting her glance and nodding twice. "It's halfway finished."

"Really?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "No procrastination?"

"I've known that I need to do this for two months, and it's due this weekend."

"I'm just impressed that you're doing it before Friday night."

He narrowed his eyes at her jokingly, so she smiled more, and then he smiled, and she felt a feeling in her stomach, a strange one in which she knew that she genuinely enjoyed something that was going on but felt oddly uncomfortable with that enjoyment.

"I hate to leave on such short notice," he said, glancing to the door, "but I have salmon cooking, and I don't want it to burn."

"You're cooking dinner?" she asked.

He nodded, said, "I figured that you're tired of tofu and rice by now."

"Castle, you have no idea."

"Good. You'll appreciate tonight then," he said, standing up, and with the worst of French accents, he emphasized, "I'm making you _des goûts délicieux_ and _des plats grands_."

"Great," she said as he left the room. "I'll look forward to it."

However, she wasn't looking forward to these next few minutes alone, so she reached over to her clock, turned on its radio to the only station for miles. "The Boxer" was playing, an obvious but still uplifting piece, so she relaxed further in the darkness, tried to think of why on earth she was still smiling.

He loved her, as he had made perfectly clear, and she...didn't know what she was feeling. Throughout her life, she had held dear a strong sense of morality; a certain action was good while another was bad, and though a grey area existed, she preferred to put others into that area and not herself, but with Castle, everything was a grey area. Though she'd tried to be something more with Castle, her actions hadn't been brash enough to gain his attention, so she'd spent another summer consumed in her mother's murder, and despite how she'd come to hate him for that, she'd still felt...something. She'd still wanted to build upon what they had, but she didn't...

She hated incomplete sentences, and she hated uncertainty, and she was deadlines, and he was flexible payment plans, and she was a plan-book while he was an ever-changing event, a party whose location was spread solely by word-of-mouth, and he loved her, and she didn't. She didn't. What didn't she? She didn't love him, but she didn't _not_ love him. Love was too big yet too narrowing a word for this _thing_ that they were in. If she had loved him, she would've...she didn't know what she would've done. In fact, she'd likely have wasted this opportunity, would've kissed him twice and said that they would make great friends. However, she felt something different, a feeling of wanting to be more with him without being a conquest, a release party date, a Valentine's Day obligation. No, she wanted something different, a connection that she knew he would offer; however, she hadn't any idea as to how she could tell him that.

She didn't love him, couldn't know that until they'd been formally seeing each other long enough that both of their intentions could become absolutely clear. Ever since her mother's murder, she didn't commit to attachment with ease; instead, she agonized over trusting others, hardly let others in. Though she'd put up her strongest of walls, he was still there, and he still wanted to be there because he loved her. Somehow, she'd grown thankful for that, but she still couldn't find the words to make him understand that.

Instead, she longed that he would wake up one day and _understand_, for then he could come into her bedroom, lie down beside her, and kiss her forehead, his commitment to her and her commitment to him evident in every breath they took. She longed that he would run his fingers through her hair and cherish her, the same way as he once had from afar but now closer and more intimate. Most of all, she longed that they could move forward from that place so that one day, they could be somewhere, anywhere, and he could say his line to her with blissful ease.

"I love you, Kate."

And then, she could finally say the sentence that had been tormenting her for weeks.

"I think I'm in love with you, Rick."

She didn't love him just yet, but she wanted to try to be with him. If she were more whole and if she could finally figure out a way to tell him, then maybe they could move forward together, an unstoppable tag-team with lip-kisses and back rubs galore. However, she wasn't whole, and she wasn't good enough with words, so now, what they currently had would need to suffice.

The song switched to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love," and annoyed with the coincidence, Kate turned off the radio as her face faded.

Not today, she thought. Not today.

* * *

"Kate, you'll appreciate it more if it's a surprise."

"I hate surprises."

"You won't hate this surprise."

"Castle."

"And we're served!"

Placing two plates on the kitchen table, he went to sit down alongside her while she surveyed the dish. Up on the table and in between their seats, the wildflowers sat in a vase, and though she'd at first been unnerved by the flowers, a seemingly romantic gesture, she'd come to enjoy their presence, for the flowers were more of a comforting gesture, a shade of loving that wasn't colored with pastels. Though the kitchen lights were still on, he'd put out candles anyway, a wonderful scent of spice hanging in the kitchen. Beyond his evident gestures to make her sit-down-and-just-eat dinners into something more, he'd even cooked something that at first glance she almost marveled at. She hadn't a clue as to what each piece of the dish was, but the various colors, far different from the standard beige that her tofu-and-rice meals had been, were enticing enough, and those colors combined with the luxurious scent of the dish showed her that this was going to be one of her better meals.

"I present to you," he said, gesturing to his plate as he sat next to her, "balsamic-glazed salmon, sautéed spinach, and a carrot and snow pea julienne in lemon sauce over brown rice."

A smile coming to her face - because, damn it, that sounded _good_ - she looked to him, said, "Castle, you didn't need to-"

"No, Kate, I _did_ need to," he corrected as he picked up his fork and knife from his place-setting.

Not arguing any further, she shook her head, picked up her own silverware, tried to decide which part of the meal to indulge in first. She looked to his plate, saw that he had gone for a forkful of salmon with some greens first, and decided to do the same; as she tasted her first forkful, her eyes closed slowly, and while she chewed, she accidentally let out a sound, a moan of sorts. Well, she wouldn't have described it as a _moan_, but-

"Well, I guess that's a sign that you're enjoying this," he said, trying to make a joke, but when she met his gaze, she could evidently see that he was off-put; however, he looked uncomfortable in a certain way that only led her to think one thing.

_That just turned him on._

She wasn't sure if she should make that noise many times more or clamp her mouth shut instead.

"It's very good," she said, nodding quickly and almost choking on the air around them.

She took another forkful, and, damn him, this was a _good_ meal, the salmon perfectly sweet and tart, the greens just soft enough. Though she had figured he could, she'd never known that he could cook, so when she took a bite of rice and julienne, she was almost taken aback with his homemade lemon sauce - and when had he even had time to make all of this? - for its flavor seemed mastered, not improvised.

"Castle?" she asked, putting her fork down for a moment.

He hummed in response, his own mouth full.

"How did you make this lemon sauce?" she asked.

He swallowed, responded, "Do you like it?"

"It's delicious."

"Back when she was younger, Alexis used to hate most sauces," Castle explained as he forked another bit of salmon. "She always complained about the creamy ones upsetting her stomach, and tomato sauces were too acidic for her, and a whole variety of other problems arose from any form of sauce."

"And?"

"_And_," he continued, "she was a kid, and she didn't like bland food."

"Ah."

"So, being the dazzling father I am, I created the lemon sauce."

"A perfectly mild in-between."

"It's been a staple in our household ever since. Plus, it's easy to make. Lemon juice, corn starch, a bit of pepper, a butter pat if you want to put it on lobster."

"I'll have to remember that."

However, her thoughts weren't on remembering his recipe; her thoughts were on the fact that he'd made a _family staple_ for her. Of course, she could recall the days when her parents would cook signature dishes for potlucks or group gatherings, but having him make her a dinner complete with a sauce holding that kind of history meant something more. Though he could be a self-centered jackass sometimes, he wasn't trying to dazzle her with dinner for his own benefit; no, he was doing this for her, and in doing this for her, he had concocted a sauce that seemed to say two things to her. The first was that she was worthy of being in his family. The second was that he wanted her there.

And now she was reading much too far into the lemon sauce. Maybe the drugs from the hospital hadn't worn off yet, or maybe she was lovesick without actually being in love with him. Whatever it was, she pushed it to the back of her mind as she took more bites. A good meal, a good man, and a much better day than the night beforehand, she knew to treasure such things so long as the context was safe, and as was apparent to her, this context was truly safe.

Though she'd offered to help with the dishes, he'd flat-out refused for a myriad of reasons, so instead, he walked her to the couch, laid her down there, asked her to pick a post-dinner movie while he left to scrub. There was an underlying domesticity to it all, something she could easily become accustomed to. At the end of her day, she could come home to him, could take off her coat - it was winter in her imaginings - and walk toward him in the living room and kiss him as snowflakes in her hair melted upon his shirt. Then, they would sit down on the couch and watch a movie together, their choices as eclectic as could be, and when they went to bed, she would sleep on the right, and he would sleep on the left, and when her alarm would go off the next morning, he would move closer to her side, nuzzle up to her and grant her a _good morning_ while she insisted _five more minutes_.

She picked _Pretty Woman_. When he came over to sit with her, he brought a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries.

"If you're trying to taunt me, then you need to stop," she said as he sat on the floor right in front of where her head rested on the couch.

"They're diet-safe," Castle said. "It's not real chocolate, just syrup and flavoring. Of course, it's not the healthiest thing for you, but every diet has its loopholes. You need a treat."

He took a strawberry from the bowl, held it up between two fingers to her. Glancing back, he asked, "Would you care for one?"

She gave him a look, but then, he gracelessly stuck the berry toward her mouth, staining her lips in syrup and flavoring. Laughing, she took the berry between her own fingers and took a bite. Though she hadn't intended for it to happen, she gave one of those moans once more because she had become so unaccustomed to flavorful foods that she could hardly contain her contentment, and of course, he looked gladly distraught in a way that, at this point, only she could make him look.

So maybe she needed to make that sound a few more times.

* * *

Her fingers had wandered in the best of ways during the film.

First, she'd rested her palm on his shoulder, an invitation for him to hold her hand, and though she'd held his hand for most of the exposition, had squeezed at all of the parts that made her smile, she'd started to move her fingers at the middle of the film, and then, she'd played with his hair, had toyed with a stray lock before bringing her hand back to his shoulder, a gesture that had made his heart stop. Soon enough, he had had trouble focusing on the movie, for she was captivating his attention, but luckily, she found a quiet, comfortable place and later rested her hand on his shoulder as the film reached its final act. From time to time, he'd looked back at her, her silence seeming to imply that she was sleeping, but she was awake nonetheless, her eyes on the screen and then on him.

And it was comfortable in the worst of ways, for he could picture spending an entire day like this, her hands in his hair, her warm, lithe body so close to his, some movie that they weren't even watching playing on the television. The sheer stupidity of his adoration for moments like these with her almost made him cringe as he brought her to bed; she still needed time, and he still needed to respect that, but, damn it, could she hurry up?

"Thank you," she said as she settled into her spot in bed, the left side entirely empty. "For tonight. Dinner was lovely."

"Anytime," he gave, trying to be casual as he sat down in his desk chair alongside her.

Though he was accustomed to this feeling of wanting her but straying away, he now felt compelled to kiss her and even more compelled to act on that want, for she had been...she had changed. Or, maybe, she hadn't changed, but no matter what had happened, she'd been opening herself to him in little ways all day, and it was becoming harder and harder to resist the temptation. However, he reminded himself that she needed time, so he kept his distance.

Looking toward him, she furrowed her brow, asked, "What's wrong?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Come on, Castle," she asked, a bit agitated. "What's on your mind?"

She reached her right arm out, extending her hand toward him. Begrudgingly, he took her hand, held it in both of his.

"You," he admitted.

Her face calmed but then paused in anxiety, and with a lip bite, she averted her gaze.

"Seems like a common topic nowadays," she said, trying to hide her obvious discomfort.

"Yeah," he admitted, nodding to himself.

As he looked at her, he saw a myriad of emotions upon her face, everything from stress to discomfort to hope to sincerity. She tried to speak, but each time she opened her mouth, she couldn't find words. Shifting in his seat, he looked to her, tried in vain to see what she wanted him to know. However, there was a barrier between them, likely one that she had built, so he couldn't see what she concealed, couldn't understand why she was distraught.

"Come here," she finally managed, glancing down to the bed and then up at him. "I can't talk to you when you're that high above me."

Before he could retaliate, she moved toward the left side of the bed and gave him space even though such a motion would have hurt her. Though she was gentle, he could tell that moving to the other side of the bed and lying on her right side hadn't been a comfortable task, so in an attempt to let her keep her honor, he lay down beside her, his left side against the bed so that he could face her. The pillow smelled like her, like jasmine and soap and star anise. He wondered if the pillow that she lay upon smelled of him.

She was correct; he had been too high above her before, for now, he could see that there was something else affecting her, something he hadn't noticed originally. Looking toward her eyes, he saw that she was not only distraught but also conflicted; she had something to say, yet she couldn't bring herself to say it, not now. Though he reached out to touch her, just to touch her in any way he could, he stopped before he could reach her, retreated his hand. When she met his glance, he froze.

"Castle?" she asked, her eyes asking a question while her mouth merely spoke his name.

He nodded twice against the pillow. She smelled like comfort, like adventure, like coming home after living out of a suitcase for months. _Home_. She smelled like home, and undeniably, he'd relaxed as he'd felt her warmth in this bed.

"I want to say something," she admitted, "and even though I'm desperate to say it, I don't know if I want to go through the aftermath."

The sheer honesty in her eyes was overwhelming, the green orbs saying more than language ever could. In moments, he knew what he needed to say, but before he could say it, he paused, smugly grinned.

"What?" she asked, momentarily confused.

"The sky," he said, looking to her with a smile on his lips. "The sky didn't clear up my book troubles."

"It didn't?"

"It made me realize that not much I could do would drastically change the world," he said. "Of course, I could change my life, and I could change the lives of people around me, but one tiny gesture won't change the course of the rest of the world. Big gestures and harsh movements may change the world, but one statement of mine can't hurt enough people that the world would suddenly stop turning. I am so small in comparison to this world, and you could bring out science and reasoning and all kinds of things, Newton's Third Law and whatnot, but the equal and opposite force I have on this world is proportionally small in comparison to the world itself."

She paused, said, "That's more of a sad revelation, isn't it?"

"But it's so..." he tried as he looked for words. "It's freeing, you know? One thing I do could hurt me, but it may not hurt the rest of the world. I can't do too much harm."

She held his glance, then moved her eyes down as she leaned further into her pillow. Though she was still considering what to say, he could tell that she had softened, so when she next spoke, he encouraged her, wanted her to work through what she wanted him to know.

"Now that we're on the topic of _War and Peace_," she said, her eyes down, her face serious, "there's a certain scene near the end of the book. It's famous, or, at least, I was led to believe that it's famous. After Pierre's imprisonment - or maybe it was at the end of Pierre's imprisonment, but I can't recall, and no matter what, he had been imprisoned - he realizes that the diversity of thinking and feeling humans is peculiar and fantastically interesting. At first, he had sworn to a life of reason, but then, he realized that what makes humanity so interesting is the fact that humanity cannot be reasoned with, not when everyone can see the world through such different eyes. At first, he'd been annoyed with how no two views were exactly alike, but now, he relishes in it, can't imagine a life in which he isn't drawn to such strange and different people. He lived a life based in knowledge and facts, but after going through hell, he knows that the most interesting people - and the most worthwhile people to know - are the ones who cannot be categorized by reason."

Castle nodded slowly, and even though she wouldn't meet his glance, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her, couldn't stop watching the way her face contorted in so many different emotions. Anger, fear, frustration, panic, hope, embarrassment, they all painted across her visage in a way that made Rick want to reach out to her again, but he held back, watched as she tried to speak. As she attempted to form words, she looked weak, small, fragile; she looked as though saying more could break her.

And then, he knew what she was going to say before she could bring herself to say the words out loud.

"I lied before," she said, a crack in her voice as she finally met his glance.

What was he feeling? He hadn't a clue, and for the moment, all he could feel was the throb of his heart, a constant reminder that he was here, and that this was real, and that this was happening.

"I..." she tried, but she was speechless, unable to continue. "I was...I was hurting, Castle, and at the time, I couldn't have...I needed space from the world. It was too much stimulation, too many things coming to me at once, and I was scared, Castle, and I still am, and..."

His limbs were numb, his head feeling faint.

"To reason with why I lied would be pointless, for millions of reasons went into that conclusion," she said. "Excusing my lie would be pointless as well, for mending each of those reasons isn't a task that should be done, not when it has brought me to where I am now. And what would we have been if I'd told you I'd heard you, Castle? I was...I was afraid of telling the truth, not when so many things were already hanging over me."

She bit her lip before she continued.

"The biggest reason why I lied was that I didn't know what to say about what you'd told me," she said, trying to meet his glance even though he had averted his gaze. "In fact, I still don't know what to say, and I'm agonizing to find words now. What you said is...unparalleled. Rick, it's unparalleled by far, and though I want to say the same thing to you, I'm not there yet. With ease, we could wait, could let all of this blow over, and when I'm physically and emotionally ready, we could admit things once more, but I don't want to wait. At first, I thought I wanted to be ready, to be whole as I went into this, but I'll never be whole, not when I can't move past recent events."

She stopped once more.

"Everything is a mess right now, Castle," she admitted to him, "but you and I, we're good at being in messes. You don't clarify things. You don't put things into perspective. You sure as hell don't make things easier, but you make me feel...something. You make my days feel more exciting, and you give me something to look forward to, and you keep me from being too _me_. And I can't say it back just yet, but..."

She left her words there, and then, she hesitantly reached out, almost stopped before she brought her left hand into his hair, ran her fingers through his locks as she cupped her hand behind his ear.

"I'm not there yet, Rick," she said, looking into his eyes, "but I want to be there, and when I get there, I want you with me, and if that isn't too selfish to ask, then I'd like to ask that of you."

He took a breath, his mind firing too many thoughts at once, like bullets in a battlefield. As the bullets shot overhead, a myriad of shot-sounds and bullet-paths seemed to hang in the air, yet the guns from which those bullets came could hardly be identified. Instead, the bullets were sounds and reactions, a setting. His thoughts were a setting as he finally reached out to her, brought the back of his hand to her cheek. Unsure, she let her face fade, her fear for his reaction showing. She was bare to him, as she had been so many times since he'd come to see her, but now, she seemed genuinely scared of what he could do.

Though he wanted to be mad that she had lied, he wasn't, for he'd seen her the night beforehand, had lifted her out of a pool of her own vomit and brought her to the hospital. She had been afraid then, but at the time of her shooting, she must've been horrified, her loved ones all gone, her mother's case still prominent, Montgomery passing for what could've been nothing. So she'd lied, and as she'd said, she couldn't excuse lying, not when so many different factors had led to the lie, but she didn't deserve his grief for her lie, not when she had been cornered by her mother's case, not when her own life had been so greatly at stake. For now, he couldn't bring himself to be mad.

However, he could bring himself to do something else, so he brought her face toward his palm, closed his eyes, and brought his lips to hers, for she wanted this, wanted to say back what he'd said to her. Though she wasn't there yet, she wanted to be there, so he kissed her slowly, took his time as he wrapped his lips around hers. He was gentle, his palm soft as it drifted to her hip, and when he pulled away from her, they leaned their foreheads together, their bodies closer than before. As she caught her breath, she opened her eyes to meet his gaze; he opened his eyes as well, and in motions quicker than they should've been, she reached around his back to embrace him, and he did the same, holding her closely, softly. She leaned against his shoulder; he buried his face in her curls; she still smelled of home, and now, he could hold her closer, for she wanted to be more, and he wanted to be more, and he couldn't help but smile, for this woman had been to hell and back, and though she'd never been one to say what she wanted, she'd been able to tell him what had been on her mind, and, damn it, he was proud, so proud.

They leaned away from each other, and were there tears in his eyes? Swearing tears off, he looked to her, saw the tiniest of smiles that she wore.

"Can I say it again?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

She shook her head.

"Not now," she said, meeting his gaze as he rested her hand on his side, and, God, he would never get used to that feeling, never. "Not tonight, Castle. Not tonight."

"No more heavy words?"

She nodded. "No more heavy words."

And then she slowly brought a kiss to his lips, a much shorter one than their first, and this time, he felt butterflies. Their first kiss had been filled with surprise and uncertainty, but this second one held promise, a gift-giving of sorts; this kiss said that it wouldn't be their last kiss, far from it. This kiss told him that this was the beginning, _their_ beginning.

Looking to her, he smiled, couldn't help it.

"Something more?" he asked.

"Something more," she confirmed, her lips curving up.

Feeling more invited, he brought his legs beneath her quilt; he reached behind himself in order to turn the bedside lamp off. As for alarms, they would wake when they needed to, not when they aught to. He wasn't about to leave her alone in bed, so he didn't need to check on her every three hours anymore. Instead, he watched as she turned onto her back in bed, and though he knew he wouldn't fall asleep for a long time, he turned onto his stomach, rested his left cheek on the pillow so that he could look toward her. When he saw that she was still smiling, he felt his heart stop.

"I love you," he said breathlessly as he looked to her.

Though her smile remained, she nonetheless said, "No heavy words."

"Wasn't heavy."

Reaching down, she brought her hand into his, squeezed as she met his eyes. Then, she lifted up his hand toward her face, brought her lips to his knuckle.

"That'll do for now," he excused.

She rolled her eyes with a smile, and as he laughed lightly, she moved closer to him in bed.

"There's so many things I want to ask you," she said, looking to him, "but I don't want to know anything, not anything. I want to go into this blind even though I want to know every possible outcome. I want to learn everything, but I don't want to ask."

He nodded slowly against the pillow.

"We don't need to know anything just yet, not now," he said. "We can go at it day by day and see what happens. No expectations, no fear."

"Okay," she said, nodding toward him. "Whatever happens will happen."

"And we'll try."

"We'll really, really try."

His smile returned, so hers did as well.

"Goodnight, Beckett," he said, easing down against the bed.

She looked across at him, watched as his eyes softly closed.

"Goodnight, Castle," she whispered toward him.

And with that, she too closed her eyes, and suddenly, she felt light.


End file.
